The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks- Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A (video link)
Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18
I Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23
Jesus is dancing us through the Sermon on the Mount, moving effortlessly between the highly personal and intimate interpersonal to the intensely communal and political, and today, he leads us into the heart of his radical teaching on engaging the powers-that-be with the power of nonviolence.
I am indebted to Walter Wink and his little book Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way for helping to illuminate these scriptures that are otherwise so mystifying. And, though I’ve shared this teaching before, this is one of those teachings that we need to circle back to over and over—it’s a foundational teaching of the Jesus way and so needed in our time.
So, let’s plow in.
Jesus said, “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.
First, Jesus is holding up the standard of the ancient law—“an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” Retaliation in equal kind. And actually, this law in the Old Testament was meant to protect people from vengeful retribution where the retribution might by worse than the originating crime or injury. But once again, Jesus takes the ancient standard and ups the ante—don’t retaliate at all. Do not resist an evildoer. And again, evildoer is someone who brings toils, annoyances, perils; one who causes pain and trouble. Do not set yourself against them; do not oppose them. Huh? Aren’t we to fight injustice? Not quite, we are to strive for justice, but in the very energy of fighting you empower that which you are striving to transform. Jesus has another way.
We’ve got to understand how this striking on the cheek thing works, or we will do as so many Christian preachers have grievously done and counsel people to go passive in the face of abuse. The only way someone could strike you on the right cheek, in that culture, was to do a backhanded slap with the right hand—you can’t use your right fist, because the nose is in the way, and you can’t use your left hand because it was used for unclean acts. A backhanded slap was by definition about one person having power over another and about humiliating the one with lesser power. So, when Jesus counsels turning and offering your other cheek, your left cheek, this was not an act of passivity, but an act of standing firm and claiming your full and equal status as fellow human being. First, as you turn your head, your eyes meet, and that is a deeply humanizing moment, and then, to strike your left cheek, the aggressor would be forced to use his right fist and thereby acknowledge you as an equal.
And the direction on giving your cloak to someone who is suing you for your undergarments, well, Jesus is just brilliant here. Matthew and Luke disagree on the order here. Luke says if they’re suing you for your cloak, give your undergarment, too, but Matthew goes a step further and says, if they’re suing you for your undergarments, give them your cloak, too. What is at stake here? Well, the poor often only had their garments to give as collateral for a loan, but the law required that if you’d given your cloak as collateral, that the person from whom you had borrowed money had to return it at sundown so you could be warm as you slept. It’s rotten enough to ask someone to give their cloak as collateral, but in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is saying, “It’s even worse than that—they’re suing you for your undergarments! So, don’t stop there; hand them your cloak as well”—which would leave you what? (pause) Naked, that’s right. And nakedness in that culture was a big taboo, and the shame fell on the one gazing upon the nakedness, not the one who was naked. In one brilliant step, Jesus has revealed the moral bankruptcy, the absolute exploitation of the whole economic system of loans in that culture.
And then, going the second mile. A Roman soldier, a member of the occupying force, could force a civilian who had no power to carry his pack for a mile, but not for two. Again, this was humiliating for the occupied people, but to fight a Roman soldier was out of the question. So, carry the pack the second mile became Jesus’ elegant third way. A) It exposed the Roman soldier to severe military penalties because the rule was one mile and no more and B) It exposed the Roman soldier to ridicule from his buddies—“What, you’re not strong enough to carry your own pack?” and no Roman soldier wanted to be ribbed like that. Again, the person with no power has found a way to hold fast to the human dignity of which the system of subjugation was fervently trying to strip him.
At every turn, Jesus is showing people how to resist without standing against, how to hold fast to your dignity as a beloved son or daughter of God when the powers-that-be are trying to strip it away, how not to replicate the very system of retaliation that people of the Jesus way are called to transform. And this is crazy hard. Retaliation is so much easier; it’s the default of our primitive brains. And when we’re really stuck in our primitive brains, we don’t even stop there—we go straight for vengeful full-on retribution, forget “eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth.”
But lest we start to get puffed up with the sheer elegance and brilliance of Jesus’ third way as a tactical coup on those who hold the power, Jesus is going to drop us right back down into our hearts. Ancient standard, up the ante.
But before we get to the up the ante part, let’s revisit the ancient standard of loving your neighbor because Leviticus unpacks that for us this morning: You shall not hate in your heart anyone of your kin; you shall reprove your neighbor, or you will incur guilt yourself. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.
Leviticus would remind us this morning that this loving stuff extends far and wide and close and near. Kin is anyone in your tribe—sometimes translated as “fellow countrymen.” Oh, this just got really relevant—thank you Leviticus! You shall not hate in your heart your fellow countrymen. And reproving your neighbor is more complicated than it sounds—it’s not only about correcting them, proving what is right, but the hebrew word also possesses this sense of reasoning together with them. And you reason with your neighbor, you risk the conversation, because when we don’t risk the conversation, then we are complicit in this sin of separation, then we bear this sin of separation together.
Leviticus will not let us up for air—no taking vengeance, no avenging your feelings against any of your tribe, your kin, your people, your fellow countrymen. In fact, you don’t even get to keep your anger like a prized possession, like really it’s a word that’s repeated in hebrew—you really don’t get to keep your anger; you don’t get to guard yourself against these your kin, but you shall love your fellow-citizen as yourself, as a part of your own being. Ouch—bye-bye caricatures of people paraded across our tv screens, radios, and social media. That’s where God starts us in Leviticus. That’s the ancient standard, and now, Jesus is going to up the ante.
“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Are you kidding me? Love my enemies? Pray for those who persecute me? This is what it means to be children of God? God has care and concern for the evil, the annoying, the ones bringing all this pain and trouble, God has concern for them and the good? God has concern for those who are living their lives in alignment and in right relationship and those who could care less about living in alignment with God and make a mockery of right relationships? I have to love them? I have to greet them? I have to be perfect as God in heaven is perfect? Are you kidding me, Jesus?
And with those kind and compassionate and piercing eyes, Jesus looks at us, loves us, and says the hard thing—“Nope, I’m not kidding. What I am asking you to do is that hard; my way is that radical.”
And this being perfect is not about perfection like we think about it—it’s not about being without mistake or error—it’s teleios—it’s a word that comes up a lot in theology. It’s the endgame, it’s when something is brought to its end, wanting nothing to be complete; it is utter integrity and the capacity to live that path of integrity, what we call virtue. And here’s the really bad news—it’s full-on, full-grown adulthood, that fullness that comes with age, otherwise known as MATURITY.
Oh man, Jesus is calling us to grow up, really grow up into the full stature of Christ. Jesus is calling us to look out upon this world with compassion, to understand that those we would call enemy are no less beloved of God than we are. We need to love and pray for those (fill in the blank) people that get on your every last nerve, those people who make your blood boil, Jesus is telling us we need to love and pray for those people and to know that that love is sourced from God’s heart emanating from within us. Jesus is calling us to put on the mind of Christ and love from a place so much deeper and broader than we could possibly imagine.
This doesn’t mean that we don’t engage matters of injustice; Jesus certainly did. It’s just that the water from which we drink as we thirst for justice comes from a far deeper well, from a place where the living water flows, from a far deeper place than our culture is offering us right now.
It doesn’t matter if we are doing the right thing if our hearts are still wanting to stick it to our enemies. We may achieve a human end, but it won’t be a divine one. God’s heart has room for the enemy, and when we meet our enemy there, there is the possibility that we will both be transformed.
This teaching is not for the faint of heart; this teaching is about the utter and complete transformation of our heart, and as we start to understand the enemy is our kin, and our kin is our neighbor, and our neighbor is our very own self, well, there is no end to the transformation that God can work then.
Yes, in solidarity with Jesus, we are called to third way acts of nonviolence in the face of injustice and power differentials, but our first step in the radical way of nonviolence, as Jesus embodies it, will be in the radical expansion of our hearts that can hold a place at the table for even our enemy.
No wonder people take the easy way of dualistic-plain-ol’-in-your-face opposition. Fighting, fleeing, freezing, appeasing—all of these are far easier than coming alongside neighbor, kin, enemy and dwelling together with them in God’s heart until both they and we are transformed. But truly, this is the only way big enough to move into the peaceable kingdom that God yearns for and that we all long to inhabit.
Today, let God do a radical number on your heart, and then move out into the world with courage as you seek to walk in Jesus’ third way. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
February 19, 2017
This interpretation of Matthew 6:38-41 has drawn on the teaching of Walter Wink in Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way. I want to give credit where credit is due, and this morning, the credit is his. Please read his book.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A (video link)
I Corinthians 3:1-9
Whew. Jesus gets downright personal today. We continue with the Sermon on the Mount and some of the most demanding ethical teaching anywhere. There’s a lot here, so let’s jump right in.
Jesus starts by laying out the ancient standard—the minimum demands of the law or what is allowed by the law—and then ups the ante—“You have heard that it was said, but I say to you…”
For instance: ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire.
Oh, the english just can’t quite get us to the heart of the greek. The greek is more piercing—if you’re angry with a brother or sister, you’re going to be under obligation, bound, subject to a crisis, a sundering, a divide, a split, a rending; and then, if you call your brother or sister a rhaka, a derogatory term for a senseless empty-headed person, a term of utter vilification depicting someone as worthless, then you’re going to be subject to the council; and then, if you call anyone moros, foolish, empty, dull, stupid, as in moron, then you will be subject to the fiery geenna, Gehenna, that Jewish depiction of future punishment, otherwise known as the dump south of Jerusalem where the trash and dead animals of the city were cast out and burned.
Do you see what Jesus is doing here? He’s taking one standard of law that applied to a few people, those who commit actual murder, and applies the standard to all of us in our relationships, and shows us how this escalates in us. Anger brings us to a crisis point, to a point where something is tearing in the fabric of the relationship.
At that point, we have a choice—we can reconcile, we can speak the truth in love, we can hold accountable—we can do many things that will pull us through the crisis point toward life and richer relationship.
Or, we can blow past that point and head for the gutter, hurling derogatory words at the focus of our anger and frustration, stripping them of their worth. That will land us before the council. A stiffer consequence than a crisis point, a place where we have to stand accountable before the assembly of our tradition and have held before our eyes that tragic gap between the values we profess and the reality of our words and deeds.
And, we can choose to blow past that point, and move beyond the singular brother or sister who is the target of our anger, and spray our venom out upon anyone who’s in the way—and in one broad sweep, they’re all stupid, foolish, completely empty, devoid of any forethought or wisdom whatsoever, morons, and that will land us in hell, a place full of the stink of dead, rotting, burning trash, surrounded by our own venom.
And that’s just where Jesus starts. It’s going to be a long morning.
He then goes for the heart of the matter, and it’s brutal. So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. Did you get that? It’s not if you remember that you’ve got a beef with your brother or sister; no, as we come to this altar today, Jesus wants us to do a heart scan on ourselves—can we think of anyone who’s got a conflict with us? Can we think of any relationship in our lives that’s experiencing a tear in the fabric? Yes? Okay, pause, if you’ve got a pen, write that name down on your bulletin. If you don’t have a pen, etch that name in your mind. Jesus wants us to leave our gift here, and go and be reconciled with that person. I’ve always had this fantasy of stopping church right now and letting everyone go out into the world to do just that. What would happen if we did that? But back to the text.
Reconciled—it actually means “change, to change the mind of anyone, to renew friendship”—so change course with someone who’s in conflict with you, and then come back and offer your gift. So, what if you commit to doing one thing this week toward reconciling before coming back to this altar? It could be a phone call, a letter, a cup of coffee to talk it out; it could be a commitment to hear them out; it could be a commitment to pray for a softening of hearts, theirs and yours.
Because here’s the deal, that accuser that Jesus tells us to come to terms quickly with on our way to court, that accuser is just another way to talk about our opponent, our adversary, our enemy. And, in the greek, Jesus doesn’t tell us to come to terms with that person, but rather, Jesus tells us to wish them well, to be of a peaceable spirit with them, literally, to be well in the mind toward them. And Jesus is so right, if we don’t, then it lands us in prison, we are locked in a cage, and it is so hard to get out of that place.
Then Jesus goes on to do a really graphic lesson on how we can’t really compartmentalize our lives. “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell.
How we view something matters, and how we view things changes our hearts. We think we can do this thing over here quite in isolation, and not have it affect the rest of our being, but we are coherent, whole selves. What one piece of our body, spirit, mind, heart does impacts the whole of who we are. We can’t quarantine off parts of ourselves—the actions of our bodies, the vibrations of our spirits, the fixations and ruminations of our minds, the ripples of our hearts—these cannot be contained. We either move through this world as a coherent whole, or we leave parts of ourselves behind and cut ourselves off from the abundant life of which Jesus speaks.
Jesus moves from there to pull into our consciousness the difference between what the law allows, what is permissible, and what is moral. The law certainly allowed divorce at the whims of the husband, but that doesn’t make it right. The ease with which a man could divorce his wife left the woman exposed and economically vulnerable. Jesus is saying to us, “Yeah, I know the law allows it, but you don’t divorce on a whim. Do not treat this most intimate of relationships with an air of convenience. Just because it’s legal doesn’t make it moral; there are grave consequences to this action—for everyone involved.” What’s motivating Jesus here is his concern for how men, who held the power, were trivializing marriage and putting women, who were property, in unbelievably vulnerable positions, and thinking that one could take those actions and go along one’s merry way. Anyone who’s been through the tragedy of divorce knows it doesn’t work that way.
And then, there’s that whole sort of odd bit about how it was said in ancient times that people should not make false vows, but should fulfill their vows to the LORD, but how Jesus says, “No, don’t swear an oath at all, not by heaven, not by earth, not by Jerusalem, not by your head. Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this full of anguish and hardship and labor.” Oh, so true. How hard it is to just say what you mean, and mean what you say, and set your boundaries, and say your “yes’s” and your “no’s” without hedging, apologizing, or explaining yourself ad nauseam. Keeping it to a simple “yes” or a clear “no” just feels so not southern, feels so wrong. Sometimes, we fear the distress that we think our clear “yes” or “no” might cause, and so we hem and haw, but oh my goodness, the tangled web of explanations we weave are a load of work. Jesus is counseling us that clarity is a gift. He had that clarity, and his clarity allowed the people around him to make the choices they needed to make. Honor your wisdom, and honor the discernment of the people around you. Let your “yes’s” and “no’s” simply be, and use all that freed up energy to move more deeply into the “yes’s” that God’s calling you to say.
Hard stuff, ehhh? Jesus is demanding an ethical consistency and coherence that few of us possess. It’s the narrow way he talks about, and yet, this is the way to life. And it has always been so. Moses reminds us today: I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him; for that means life to you and length of days, so that you may live in the land that the Lord swore to give to your ancestors, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob. We have to consciously choose this life, for this is where we will find life and blessings and the promised land of abundance and right relationships.
This is the solid food that Paul talks about that so few of us can stomach. We’d rather follow our human inclinations and cling to our jealousies and quarrels and divisions, but this isn’t the field that God’s growing, and it’s not the field that God is building.
The scriptures focus a lot on systems and structures, but today, Moses, Paul, Jesus, they get downright personal. There are choices before each one of us, every single day, in every single relationship. What will we choose? Will we let our anger escalate? Will we work to reconcile? Will we wish our adversary well and allow our mind and hearts to soften? Will we compartmentalize our lives? Will we hide behind what is allowable and forsake what is moral? Will we stand by our “yes’s” and our “no’s,” and know that, while not perfect, we are enough? Will we choose life, or death? Blessings, or curses? Will we grow up into the full stature of Christ and feed on this solid food?
So many hard choices; it all seems a little overwhelming to tell you the truth. But you are here, and that’s enough to begin. This table is set, and in this food, we will find the strength we need to choose the way that leads to life. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
February 12, 2017
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A (video link)
I Corinthians 1:18-31
Oh, settle in. As they say, “The Lord has laid a lot on my heart today.”
The scriptures are not going to be kind to us for the next stretch of time. I looked ahead—we get Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount from Matthew for the next four weeks. The Sermon on the Mount—Matthew chapters 5-7—is the heart of Christian ethical teaching, going all the way back to St. Augustine. Christian ethics—those moral principles that govern the behavior of one who professes to follow Jesus; that discipline that helps us know what is good and guides us to act in accordance with that knowledge. Christian ethics draws its juice from Jesus’ teaching, most especially the Sermon on the Mount, and the ripples from this teaching go out and out and out. It is said that Gandhi read the Sermon on the Mount every day for 40 years to ground his ethical vision and practice.
And the prophets and Deuteronomy and Leviticus—they’re just going to hammer us over the next several weeks. So please, don’t shoot the messenger—I’m just holding the space where we have to wrestle with these things.
And I’m going to confess to you right now—I am struggling. I visited my mom up in Louisville earlier this week, and she loves to watch the news. We don’t have cable at our house, so this is a world I don’t really know—I was doing some serious channel surfing. We watched Rachel Maddow on MSNBC, and then we watched Sean Hannity on Fox News, and frankly, at the end of an hour or so of this, I felt sick, physically sick, and really agitated. Both commentators were making leaps of logic that didn’t make sense to me, jumping from A to Z and skipping the 24 steps in-between, and interviewing people to shore up their perspective. I didn’t feel any more enlightened by the end, but my soul was definitely more troubled.
So, I want to circle back to what I said in my annual address in November when I was unpacking what it looks like to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world, especially this side of the Presidential election. Here’s what I said back in November:
I don’t know what the future looks like under Mr. Trump’s leadership; that will be revealed over time through his actions and through the actions of his administration. I know people’s minds are racing forward into a thousand different scenarios, but worry about the future is rarely productive or life-giving. We hold people accountable for word and deed, not for our fears of the what if’s. I will say of Mr. Trump what I have said of every President, no matter their party, my baptismal vow to respect the dignity of every human being extends to them, even if I disagree with every policy position they take. This vow extends to the President’s followers. This vow extends to those who oppose the President. We are called to respect the dignity of every human being, while at the same time, calling out any and all words and actions that diminish the dignity of another human being. Living like Jesus is really hard.
So, here’s the rub. This week, we started to see some of Mr. Trump’s words and deeds through Executive Orders. There are several that come into direct conflict with what I know of the way of Jesus and the law and prophets that formed him. The ones that have grabbed my heart and won’t let go include the ones on Thursday relating to Border Security and Immigration Enforcement Improvements and Enhancing Public Safety in the Interior of the United States, which include: the deputizing of local law enforcement to act on behalf of Immigration (which many local law enforcement agencies don’t want); the building of more detention centers along the border (most of which are run by private contractors with a poor record of living conditions); the erasure of due process (you can be deported not just for a conviction or being charged with a criminal offense, but also for committing an act that constitutes a chargeable criminal offense); and the intent to strip federal funding from local communities that are sanctuary communities. And the Executive Order on Friday Protecting the Nation from Foreign Terrorist Entry into the United States, which suspends entrance into our country from Nationals of Countries of Particular Concern for 90 days while a review of our visa process is undertaken. In addition, the entire U.S. Refugee Admission Program is suspended for 120 days. Entrance of Syrian refugees is suspended until such time as the President decides they are not a threat to national interest. In addition, there is a right to review in this Executive Order for those who are religious minorities facing religious persecution in their country of nationality—so Christians persecuted by ISIS in a majority Muslim country may come, but Muslims persecuted by ISIS may not come if that country is majority Muslim. And this Order was given on the same day that the President marked International Holocaust Remembrance Day and promised that “Together, we will make love and tolerance prevalent throughout the world.”
As your priest, as your pastor, as your teacher, as a preacher, I am in some serious conflict because I can’t not know what I know about the scriptures and the way of Jesus and what these demand of us. And I can’t let you not know these things either. I can’t not know Leviticus 19:34—The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God. Period. I can’t not know that Jesus himself was a Jew who had to flee a brutal dictator, every bit as brutal as the leader of Syria who dropped chemical weapons on his own people, Jesus and his parents were refugees who had to flee to Egypt with nothing but the clothes on their back. By the standards of these Executive Orders, Jesus himself, as a Jew from a majority Jewish nation, would not be prioritized for coming into our country.
I know I am talking politics from the pulpit here, but I’m not talking to you as a Republican, because I am not one, and I am not talking to you as a Democrat, because I’m not one, but I am talking to you as one who has given my life to Jesus and his way and that way doesn’t just stop at these doors, but that way seeks to reconcile the whole world. So, I don’t have the luxury of not wading into this stuff. Jesus didn’t compartmentalize his world, nor can I, nor can you. Our faith and our world are in a world of conflict right now—as Eucharistic Prayer C says: Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.
But I also need to say that how we engage these ethical issues from the place of our faith matters; it matters a lot. It is always up to each of us to discern what actions we are called to take in this world, and that demands of us discipline and spiritual practice. So, I am starting back up the Social Justice Training Group. If you are feeling called to take action, I am calling on you to ground yourself and form yourself deep in the way of Jesus, so that you can, as St. Paul said, put on the mind of Christ and discern clearly the actions you are called to take; so that the way you take those actions doesn’t replicate this cycle of violence in word or deed. First meeting—next Saturday.
I would also encourage you strongly to do some fasting from Facebook and cable news. I don’t think these swirling, adrenalin-fueled exchanges are going to increase our wisdom. I encourage you to search out and read primary sources. If you want to know what the President is doing, go out to whitehouse.gov and read the texts of the actual Executive Orders. Watch hearings on c-span. Don’t take commentators views for your own, and don’t depend on summaries. God has shaped you and formed you, and you have put on the mind of Christ—you have a unique perspective to bring and a unique way of understanding what you read and hear—do not cede that authority away.
And in this time, we have got to double-down on our efforts to be in conversation with people who hold different perspectives than we ourselves might hold. We’ve got to listen to their perspectives, and even more, learn their stories and what shaped them to see the world as they do. There are legitimate policy differences between conservative and liberal perspectives on all of these issues, and all the ideas out there deserve to be heard with respect. We are dealing with huge, complex problems—we can’t afford to curtail any creative possibilities. And as we listen to ideas that might strike us as absurd, let us not reduce the person speaking them to a caricature. They are made in the image of God no less that we.
And, for us in this room, all of this work has to be run through the lens of Jesus and our sacred tradition. So, as is always the case, we turn to the scriptures given us today.
First, Micah. And sneak preview, next week, Jesus will remind us that he didn’t come to abolish the law and the prophets but to fulfill them, and that our righteousness needs to exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees—not being scholars knowing every aspect of the law and the prophets doesn’t get us off the hook.
So, Micah, what do you have for us?
Hear what the LORD says: Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice. Hear, you mountains, the controversy of the LORD, and you enduring foundations of the earth; for the Lord has a controversy with his people, and he will contend with Israel.
Uh oh, the LORD has a controversy with his people, and the LORD is going to contend with the whole nation. And what is that controversy? Well, the LORD gets really specific about it verse 12—your wealthy are full of violence; your inhabitants speak lies, with tongues of deceit in their mouths.
The LORD continues: “O my people, what have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me! For I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery; and I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam…
Micah continues: “With what shall I come before the LORD, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt-offerings, with calves a year old? Will the LORD be pleased with thousands of rams, with tens of thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?”
He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
So, it won’t be our worship and our offerings, even our most precious offerings, that will fix this. No, God has told us what is good and what the LORD requires—and these are always the two central questions of ethics—what is good and what behavior is required to get there—do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with your God.
Justice matters, and it is clear throughout the law and the prophets that God is keenly invested in how the poor and the oppressed, the widowed and the orphans, and a whole multitude of others in society are getting along. And God gets downright incensed when they are getting crushed, especially when this happens at the hands of the wealthy and the powerful.
To love kindness—and it’s even stronger than that—the hebrew talks about loving hesed, which means loving steadfast love. Steadfast love is the kind of love that God loves us with—it is a fierce love. God is calling us not just to act with steadfast love, but to love acting with steadfast love. This is the love that refuses to let go, ever, which means that we can’t just write off our enemies—they, too, are made in the image of God.
And we have to walk humbly with God. And there’s two parts to that. We have to walk. We have to walk where God walks. And in this passage, God is going to march us straight into doing justice. But we must also walk humbly, with humility. Walk we must, but we don’t walk with arrogance or, that great enemy of faith, absolute certitude. We must always be open to critique. None of us is infallible when it comes to discerning the mind of God. Paul reminds us, “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I don’t want is what I do”—that’s the human condition. I once heard an Anglican theologian call us to act with a bold humility or a humble boldness—either perspective will get us to the right place. We have to act, but always with the knowledge that this side of the kingdom, we don’t really know the full picture.
These are the teachings which formed Jesus. If we don’t ingest and internalize them, we won’t understand him.
And then there’s Jesus’ own teaching today. The beatitudes. They are beautiful. They are poetic. And they can fly right by us with how hard they are because we are so accustomed to their beauty.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. The greek for poor here actually points to those who are destitute of a wealth of learning and intellectual culture which the schools afford. This could be huge swaths of people across rural America and the rust belt and Appalachia and inner cities. And this poverty infects the spirit—spirits who have been crushed through neglect and lack of opportunity.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. And the mourning aren’t just those who are grieving, but also those who are lamenting.
“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Oh the meek—these are those who possess a gentleness of spirit.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are those who hold integrity ever before our eyes, who hunger for it and thirst for it; those who won’t let us forget that our words and our deeds have to match up; they have to be in alignment; they have to embody right relationship with God and each other and with all that God has made.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Mercy, oh my goodness is this in such short supply. Blessed are those who know they have power and authority and rights to do all kinds of things, but who can yield for the sake of hesed, who can yield for the sake of that steadfast love which never lets go.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Cynthia Bourgeault would remind us that only those who can drop their minds down into their hearts can see God clearly. The mind and the heart have to be talking; they have to be connected if we are to see God and to see as God sees.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. We are back to the ministry of reconciliation. Jesus will make clear that this isn’t roll-over-and-play-dead-peace-at-any-costs peacemaking. But it is to say that we don’t get to opt out of seeking peace wherever division infects our hearts and the hearts of our society.
“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.” And here, Jesus turns from those amorphous 3rd person groups, to the people right in front of him—his disciples, the crowds, and that would be you and me—and Jesus gets real: “You seek to make real these right relationships, you seek to speak and act and hold out before the world a life lived in alignment with God’s vision—oh, you’ve just signed up to be persecuted and reviled and to have all kinds of evil things uttered against you falsely on my account. But rejoice, be glad, because you have just entered into that great communion of saints with all the prophets who have gone before you—it got pretty rough for them, too, but community and solidarity go a long, long way.”
All of these ways of being are so hard, and yet, it is in these beatitude places, some of which are contemplative stances, some of which are ways of being, and some of which are ways of acting and doing—it is in these places and spaces that we find blessing that the world cannot fathom.
Micah tells us what the LORD requires of us and Jesus gives us a whole frame for where we are to engage and, more importantly, how we are to engage. And I know that what they are asking of us is just plain hard, but this is the life to which we’ve been called. It isn’t going to make us popular, but it is profoundly full of blessing.
The details of how exactly we engage all that is before us will be as different as the people in this room. Let us not judge one another, but let St. Luke’s be the generous community that we have always been and accord one another the best of motivations and intentions. Let us support one another, even if we totally disagree with the action another is called to take, knowing and trusting that we are all trying to find our way as we seek to follow our Lord. That same Eucharistic Prayer C that I quoted earlier, it goes on to say: Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.
I will continue to do my best to bring forth the clearest teaching I can, even when it rattles our cages. Living and moving among all these places of conflict, all these places of division, all these places so filled with paradox, all these places so full of pain—this is the way of the cross, but let us never forget that this is also the way that leads to life, abundant life Jesus promised.
No matter where you are on the political spectrum, welcome to the hardest spiritual work you’ve ever had to do. Together, let us do justice, and love kindness, and walk humbly with our God and discover the blessings that will surely come as we walk in this way. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
January 29, 2017
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Third Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A (video link)
Psalm 27:1, 5-13
I Corinthians 1:10-18
Well aren’t these interesting lessons for today? From Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians: Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.
That’s a great thing to hear after an election cycle that revealed our deepest divisions and on a weekend that has held both Inaugural celebrations and Inaugural protests.
Paul continues: For it has been reported to me by Chloe’s people that there are quarrels among you, my brothers and sisters. What I mean is that each of you says, “I belong to Paul,” or “I belong to Apollos,” or “I belong to Cephas,” or “I belong to Christ.” We might add, “I belong to Donald,” or “I belong to Hillary,” or “I belong to Bernie,” or “I belong to fill in the blank.”
Paul continues: Has Christ been divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul? I thank God that I baptized none of you except Crispus and Gaius, so that no one can say that you were baptized in my name.
Okay, that’s getting a little personal, seeing as I am about to baptize Leo here. And God love Paul, He just can’t help himself. Here he is trying to make clear that the baptism isn’t really about him, and his ego just sneaks up there and has to say, “I thank God that I didn’t baptize any of you, well, except Crispus and Gaius, oh, and (I did baptize also the household of Stephanas; beyond that, I do not know whether I baptized anyone else.)” Our little false self just can’t stay quiet, can it? It lives within us, ever ready to leap up and take some credit, claim some ownership.
But, Paul continues: For Christ did not send me to baptize but to proclaim the gospel, and not with eloquent wisdom, so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its power.
Oh, now we get down to the heart of the matter. Parochial Report statistics aside, it’s not about how many people we baptize under the age of 16 and over the age of 16 (honest to goodness, our denominational report asks us that), and it’s not about who does the baptizing (though I am quite thrilled that I get to participate in Leo’s baptism this morning); it’s not about adding members to the Jesus team, but it’s about proclaiming the gospel; it’s about announcing glad tidings, like that angel did to the shepherds on the hillside; it’s about proclaiming good news. And our proclamation isn’t filled with fancy words, and it isn’t accomplished with eloquent wisdom, or as the greek says, “cleverness of speech” because that “cleverness of speech,” that “turning of the word” might grab our attention and distract us and then, the cross of Christ might be emptied of its power. No, proclamation of this good news cuts through all of that.
Paul reminds us: For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. But the NRSV translation misses something here. The word it translates as “message” is the same greek word that popped up in that “eloquent wisdom,” that “cleverness of speech, turning of the word” that Paul warns us about in the verse before. This “message” about the cross is also λόγος—“the word”—as in, “In the beginning was the λόγος and the λόγος was with God and the λόγος was God…and this λόγος was made flesh—and the word was made flesh and lived among us.”
This isn’t about a message; this isn’t about a doctrine; this is about a witness—this is about the word made flesh who lived among us and who stretched out his arms upon the cross to touch and hold and embrace all the extremes, all the divisions, all the places that are flying apart; this is about the word made flesh who stretched out his arms on the cross to transcend all the enmities and animosities that drive us all to violence, who stretched out his arms to gather all the us’s and them’s into one body, into his body, to take down the dividing wall that keeps us apart, and to gently reconnect us to the whole and to one another.
Paul knows this word is foolishness to those who have lost their way—and we’re not talking about those who are perishing for eternity here. No, it’s much, much closer in proximity than that. Context is so important. This word made flesh on the cross is foolishness to those who have lost their way in the adrenalin of division. It’s foolishness to those who would rather stake their claim on whom they belong to—Paul, Apollos, Cephas, even Christ—instead of understanding that being baptized into Christ’s body means you belong to everyone.
To those who can receive the wholeness this baptism offers, well then, you’ve just tapped into the deepest, most intimate, most creative power of God.
Oh Leo, you have come into this world at such an interesting time, and you are being baptized at such a crossroads moment.
Division is all around us. And yet, and yet, here we gather at these waters to bury you with Christ in his death and to raise you with him in his resurrection.
Today, we will mark you with the sign of the cross and seal you with the Holy Spirit and mark you as Christ’s own forever. Today, we proclaim the good news that you belong to him, and when you belong to him, you belong to all of humanity.
Today, we imprint into your being the capacity to reach beyond all the divisions that will swirl around you and to hold a space with Christ where those divisions may be healed.
Today, water will flow over you reminding you that you are held in the flow of love always, no matter what, without exception.
Today, we invite you into this utter foolishness that we call the way of Jesus, and we watch in awe as this portal of power opens before you that will allow you to know and be that light that shines out in the deep darkness.
You, of course, don’t understand a single word I’m saying right now, and that’s okay, Paul’s already reminded us that it’s not about eloquence, but about simply announcing glad tidings, and that gets quite, quite simple when it’s all said and done.
Leo, you are God’s beloved son, and in you, God is well pleased. Always has been, always will be, no matter what. And no matter how divided this world gets, no matter how much division you will witness in your life time, there is a deeper truth that holds you—you are knit into the body of Christ, woven into a wholeness that surpasses all our human understanding, and from this place, you can move with strength and power.
It will look like foolishness to all those who would rather stake their claim on the rush of division, but truly, this wholeness is salvation.
You will spend the rest of your days figuring out how to live from this place of this wholeness, and as your light grows, that darkness out there won’t be near as dark.
In a land of where everyone wants to belong to someone and “their someone” is the best, welcome to the revolution, Leo. You belong to the body of Christ whose love knows no bounds. Help us reach across all these places of division and knit back together this broken body one glad tiding of wholeness at a time. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
January 22, 2017
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Second Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A video link
I Corinthians 1:1-9
Christmas is over. A new year has begun. And, Jesus has been baptized, which anchors our core identity as God’s beloveds firmly in our being. It’s time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Now it’s time to wrestle with call, but before we wrestle with specifics here, we have to understand the nature of call…period.
Take Isaiah. He understands that he was called by the LORD before he was even born, claimed and named while he was still in his mother’s womb. Isaiah understands that he was shaped and formed by God for a specific task—to bring Jacob (the southern kingdom) back to God and to gather Israel (the northern kingdom) to God. Isaiah is not feeling too good about his execution of this call. He says, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity…”
Ever felt that way? Ever sensed what you were supposed to be doing and set out upon that very task only to come up really, really short? Now, at that point, it’s easy to fall into a pit of despair, and the voices can come at you with a vengeance. We could go to the shame place—I didn’t hear the call well enough, I didn’t discern what I was supposed to do well enough, I didn’t have the gifts or skills to execute well enough, OR we could go to the blame place—well, the people of Israel and Jacob, they’re just lousy God-followers, OR we could follow Isaiah to a whole different place, a creative third-way approach. We could skip shame and blame by letting go of the outcome and placing our trust in that great old spiritual virtue known as faithfulness.
Right after Isaiah makes his despairing statement about laboring in vain and spending his strength for nothing, right after he realizes that all his hard work is just a pffff, in the very next breath, he says, “yet surely my cause is with the LORD.” Isaiah goes on to remember that he was formed in the womb to be God’s servant, so he anchors back in his core identity, and he doubles down on trusting that God is his strength. It’s not about succeeding; it’s about understanding who we are made to be in the womb as God’s beloved, as servants of God, and then trusting that we draw our strength from that divine power that resides in us always.
And when we ground there, then we are ready to hear the bigger call that’s coming. In the midst of our failed mission, God comes and whispers, “Oh, this call to Israel and Jacob, this call to these tribes, it’s too light a thing, Isaiah. This may be where we started, but the call is so much bigger than that because the need is so much greater. I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth. Isaiah, it’s not that Israel and Jacob don’t matter, they do, a lot—and we always learn how to live in right relationship by practicing in the relationships closest to us—but they are just the beginning. The whole world is in need of healing. You, you have been formed in the womb to shine a light into the darkness, to bind up the brokenhearted, to manifest healing and wholeness, to call the nations to this vision.” Got it Isaiah? Your failure is the fertile ground for growth that enables you to be an even more powerful agent of salvation, a more powerful catalyst for wholeness.
And what is true for Isaiah is true for you and true for me. Whatever smaller calls we have heard in our lives, all those places where we might have come up short and failed, none of those failures can separate us from the truth that the LORD GOD claimed us and named us in the womb; none of those failures can erase the essential truth that we have been shaped for work in this world. Everything in our lives has seeded our growth and shaped us for the work that now is ours—God is giving us as a light to the nations that God’s wholeness may reach to the end of the earth. And you thought you were just coming to sing and pray and share bread and wine today, right?
And if you are ready to bolt out the door just about now, with a chorus of voices in your head saying, “Who me? I can’t be a light to the nations? I live in Boone, NC for goodness sakes. I don’t know enough. I don’t have enough power. I’m just one voice, and I have no idea what to say to the kings and princes.”
Well, the psalmist breaks it down for us—what we are to proclaim is righteousness, right relationship. The psalmist notes: “In the roll of the book it is written concerning me: ‘I love to do your will, O my God; your law is deep in my heart.’ I proclaimed righteousness in the great congregation; behold, I did not restrain my lips…Your righteousness have I not hidden in my heart; I have spoken of your faithfulness and your deliverance; I have not concealed your love and faithfulness from the great congregation. You are the Lord; do not withhold your compassion from me; let your love and your faithfulness keep me safe for ever…”
Our task, our mission, is first and foremost one of proclamation—to be that voice that talks about righteousness. That keeps holding up before the nations, “This is what right relationship looks like. This is what it looks like to live lives that are in right alignment with God and with one another—with friend and foe, with those who look like us and sound like us and act like us and with those who are complete strangers to us in every way; this is what it looks like to live lives that are in right alignment within ourselves.” And our task is to know that living in alignment always begins in the heart and emanates forth by trusting in God’s love and compassion and faithfulness to us.
And if you still have your doubts about your worthiness for the work God has placed before us today, well, that little Christian community in Corinth that we hear about this morning had the same doubts. And Paul wrote to them to encourage them, and he reminds them, and us, of some essential truths, beginning with his thanksgiving for them:
There’s a lot here. We’ve been given grace. We’ve been enriched in Jesus. It’s his words, his essence that enlivens us and enlightens us, and as we tell the story of his action in our lives, we grow stronger. We may feel like we don’t have enough and aren’t enough to do this work, but Paul is crystal clear, “You are not lacking in any spiritual gift.” Everything we need is in this room. We can count on God to strengthen us all the way to the end. We can count on God’s faithfulness to us. And we have been called, not just into the fellowship of Jesus himself, but we have been called into fellowship with one another. We don’t have to do anything alone.
And if we think we have to have all this nailed down clearly and concretely to engage with Jesus and this mission of bringing wholeness to the end of the earth, if we think we have to have our vision statement and mission statement and goals and objectives all laid out before we can begin, well, we need to think again. The first two disciples follow Jesus because John points to Jesus and says, “Here’s the Lamb of God!” That’s a pretty weird statement and an even weirder reason to follow someone—who even knows what that means? I seriously doubt that those two disciples had thought this whole thing through when they left John and followed Jesus. They just knew that there was something about him, and they needed to be with him. Jesus turns and sees them following, and he asks them, “What are you looking for?” They respond, “Rabbi” (which means Teacher), “where are you staying?” And he responds, “Come and see.” That’s it.
“What are you looking for?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Come and see.”
For all of our doubts about our capacity to do the work that God calls us to do, for all of our doubts about what we lack, what we don’t have enough of, today, it is enough just to be looking for something and to sense that that something we are looking for has something to do with Jesus.
When Jesus asks us, “What are you looking for?”—it is enough, at least for Jesus, to say, “I have no idea, but where are you staying because I just have this sense that what I’m looking for has something to do with you.”
Dave Matthews Band has a song that I love called “Where are you going.” The last verse goes like this:
I am no superman,
I have no answers for you.
I am no hero,
And that’s for sure.
But I know one thing,
That’s where you are, is where I belong.
I do know
Where you go,
Is where I want to be.
Sisters and brothers, at this moment in the life of our nation, in the life of our world, God is asking big things of us. We aren’t superman, we don’t have answers, we aren’t heroes, that’s for sure.
But we do know one thing—where Jesus is, is where we belong, and wherever he goes, is where we want to be.
And with that, Jesus looks at us and says, “Ah, come and see, and together, we’ll find the way.” Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
January 15, 2017
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks First Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A video link
The Feast of the Baptism of Christ. It sort of makes sense. We’ve just witnessed the birth. Jesus is a cute little baby. And since we Episcopalians often baptize infants, of course this is the next event in the sequence. Except for the fact that Jesus is now 30 years old and very much a grown man with agency. He has come from Galilee and sought out his cousin John who’s gone a bit to the wild side. John has become a radical. He’s out in the wilderness along the Jordan River, and he’s not mincing words. John’s talking about repentance, about turning around and going in a different direction from the way you’ve been traveling; he’s talking about getting a whole new mind, a larger mind, metanoia. He’s talking about confessing your sins, getting real clear about all those things that are blocking the flow of love in you and through you. John’s not interested in us gathering around to witness baptisms and ooooh and ahhhh; he’s interested in what’s going to change our lives.
But even John wasn’t prepared when his cousin Jesus came to him to be baptized. John had known Jesus since they were both in the womb. John knew, even then, that Jesus was different. John pushes back; he wants to prevent this—John needs to be baptized by Jesus, not the other way around. But at some level, maybe beyond Jesus’ conscious understanding, Jesus knows he needs this. And so John consents. This word for consent in greek, it’s a complex word. It means to yield, to allow, to permit, but it also has this deep sense of letting go, of giving something up, of not hindering, of keeping no longer, of forgiving, of suffering, of letting something be. Consenting is hard.
Consenting is letting go of my expectation, letting go of my vision of how something ought to go, and allowing what is to unfold as it should. When we consent, we relinquish control, and there is always a certain amount of suffering in that. But, that consent, that letting be, also holds the seeds of the creative power that gives birth to something new. Cynthia Bourgeault notes that “In the beginning, God said, ‘Let there be,’ and creation was born. So, John’s consent allows baptism to unfold in a new way.
Let’s pause right there. On this 8th day of the new year, to what might Jesus be asking you to consent? What letting go is being asked of you? Where do you need to relinquish control? What are you being asked to keep no longer? What is that something that you need to let be so that some new creation can come into being? Maybe our repentance is first and foremost to be in this realm as we wrestle with these kinds of questions. Maybe our sins, those places where we are blocking the flow, are attached to those places where we are struggling to let go.
But back to the Jordan. John consents, and when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
John’s letting go and letting be and not hindering this unfolding allowed Jesus to see and hear something new in his baptism that forever changed him, and all of us who have been baptized into his body, the Spirit of God alighting and a voice proclaiming “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
From that moment on, we can’t see baptism in the same way. It’s not about groveling; it’s not about repenting and confessing so that we are in touch with how unworthy we are—it’s about repenting and confessing so that we can let go of all those things that keep us from seeing the Spirit of God alight on us, so that we can let go of all those voices in our heads that keep us from hearing that voice from heaven proclaim us as God’s Beloved Sons and Daughters, as those with whom God is well pleased. We, like John, have to consent for this baptism to unfold in a new way in us and in each other. For Jesus to hear this good news of who he is at the deepest level, John has to consent. For the people around us to hear this good news of who they are at the deepest level, we have to consent. Nothing happens in God’s world without our cooperation and collusion.
Jesus will have an amazing life and do and teach and be amazing things. He will embody justice in a way that will upend all of our thinking. He will heal in ways that seem impossible. He will defy violence and power and death itself by showing that life and love are always stronger. He will find third ways where others have only seen one or two.
But all that can only unfold because of this moment in the Jordan at the hands of his cousin John; all of this can only unfold because Jesus knows who he is in his core—he possesses the Spirit of God; he is Beloved of God; he is a Son; in him, God is well pleased.
Jesus will not live his life with a reflected sense of self, sticking his finger up to the wind to see how others perceive him, to sense if they affirm his decisions or not, to shore up a shaky sense of self. No, there is a solidity to Jesus. When you know who you are in your core, you are free to move in all kinds of directions; you are free to live a life of courage and to take risks and to love in ridiculous ways with abandon.
But this beautiful sense of one’s True Self is never meant just to be enjoyed by the individual. There is always a communal aspect to our core identity because love is always meant to flow. As Isaiah reminds us this morning, when God puts God’s spirit upon us, it changes us from the inside out. The servant of whom Isaiah speaks, the chosen one, the one in whom God’s soul delights—he will bring forth justice to the nations.
Oh, this is big. We aren’t just pebbles in a small puddle whose ripples go out a few feet, but our ripples will spread out to the nations. Our ripples will flow out in unexpected ways—
Uh oh, being given the Spirit of God, hearing that we are God’s Beloved, those in whom God is well pleased, it comes with strings. God gives us this solid identity so that we will have the capacity to move the world by the power of our presence, not with the force of our voice; so that we will have the capacity to know how to bow and bend and not break; so that we will know that our little light can’t be quenched; so that we may know that, though tired, we won’t faint, so that we may know that we won’t be crushed.
God gives us this solid identity so that we, so that you and I, might be a covenant, a sign and symbol and embodiment of the relationship that God wants to have with all people.
God gives us this solid identity so that we understand that we are to be a light to the nations, that we are to be about opening eyes that are blind to injustice and blind to the worth and dignity that resides in every human being whom God has created and proclaimed Beloved.
God has given us this solid identity so that we will have the capacity to descend into the darkest places, the dungeons of this world that are forgotten, so that we can bring those who’ve been in prison and sat in such darkness, so that we can bring them out into the light where they can hear again that they are God’s Beloved and remember what it means to live as beloveds in community with one another. And sometimes, those in the strongest prisons are those who have the most by this world’s standards—those who have the most money and power and prestige and status—sometimes, these eyes are the hardest to open; sometimes, these prisons have the hardest bars to bend.
This baptism stuff is hard. It’s hard to hear how incredibly Beloved we are; it’s hard to hear just how well pleased God is with us; it’s hard to see that the Spirit of God is, indeed, alighting on us; and it’s hard to know that being given the gift of this identity, consenting to its unfolding in us, is going to demand so very much of us as we move forward in our life from this defining baptismal moment.
You do have a choice. You can withhold your consent, and none of this will go down. But the fact that you come here week after week tells me that you don’t really want to do that.
You come here with the expectation that you will be challenged and encouraged, changed and transformed. You come here expecting to be fed and nourished and sent out into that world to change it. You come here to be dusted off when you’ve fallen flat on your face and to get your wounds bound up, so that you can move out into that world as a servant of God, a light to the nations all over again.
Brothers and sisters, you know as well as I do that people outside those doors are in sore need of hearing that they are Beloved; you know as well as I do that blindness and darkness abounds; you know as well as I do that people have ceased to believe in things like covenants; you know as well as I do that people are longing for light; and you know as well as I do that nations are a mess and that our work has to be at the societal level as well as the individual.
Today, give your consent for this baptism to unfold in a new way—for Jesus, for yourself, for everyone you meet, and from that unshakeable solidity in your core be a servant of God shining light into the darkness wherever you go. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
January 8, 2017
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks Christmas Eve—Year A video link
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
What is it about this night? What is it that compels us to come out of our homes at 10:00 in the middle of December in a place like Boone? You could be home before a fire, sipping a warm beverage, awaiting Santa’s arrival, but you are here. Why? What draws you here?
Is it the music that pulls you into the realm of the angels, that draws you into glory and makes you fall to your knees?
Is it the incense that surrounds you with mystery and reminds you that you live and move and have your being amidst a reality that is so much bigger than you?
Is it the beauty of greenery and flowers and the awe that someone can arrange these things of natural beauty in such a stunning way?
Is it the simplicity of the crèche and knowing that just hours ago children filled this space with their eager anticipation and once again pulled off a glorious no-rehearsal Christmas play?
Or, is it the pull of a story that has echoed down through the centuries, a story that draws us like a magnet whose magnetism we can’t resist?
Is it the darkness itself, punctuated by candlelight, that reminds us that a small flame can ignite our heart?
Or, is it longing, plain and simple yearning for the possibility that this night always holds?
Or is it the swirl of all these things? Maybe, in the final analysis, our heads can’t sort out all the reasons we come out on a cold winter’s night, but our hearts know it is good and right to be here; our souls know we have to attend this birth.
We can’t not be here; there is too much at stake, for us, for our world.
We live in such a complex moment. Politics divided. Wars raging. Refugees fleeing. Change. Transition. And so it was long ago on a winter’s night. Rome was in charge, but there was a governor in Syria, and Herod the Great, king of the Jews, was on the throne in Judea. Political forces were duking it out. Religious factions were at each other. Some people were living the high life; many were struggling mightily. Nobody’s fate was in their own hands. An Emperor thousands of miles away could decide that everybody had to be registered, and off you went by foot to your ancestral home, and it didn’t matter that your soon-to-be wife was 9 months pregnant.
So, God comes to this night, then and now, amidst the swirl of forces, big forces, that feel arbitrary and very out of control. And God, God could have come with greater force, greater power—we are talking about the God who created the heavens and the earth, after all. But God, God chose to bind God’s fate to a young woman, an unmarried teenager for goodness sake, who had no power in this world, except the power of her “Yes, here I am; let it be with me according to your word.”
On this night, God chose to bind God’s fate to a newborn, completely and utterly helpless, completely dependent upon his parents, and before the week is out, they’ll be fleeing for their lives from Herod’s reign of terror, refugees on the run.
What is God trying to tell us on this night? What is God, in this tiny little bundle of flesh, trying to show us on this night? Is it that the whispered promise of Isaiah has broken into this world? That amidst all the great darkness that surrounds us, a light has sparked in the most surprising of places; that amidst all the violence that threatens to swamp us all, a child has indeed been born, and his name is Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace?
We don’t accord such things to a newborn baby, but there it is. God refuses to overpower us. God refuses to overpower our enemies. No, God has broken the yoke of our burden, the bar across our shoulders, the rod of the oppressor in a completely counter-intuitive way. God has taken off the armor and chosen instead to place the fullness of divine life into our hands and to woo us into dance of love. This night, God makes a choice to do an end-run on our defenses and head straight for our vulnerable hearts in this bundle of vulnerable flesh because it is in the meeting of that baby’s vulnerability and our own that we taste and see and smell and hear and touch the depths of divine love.
Tonight, as we gaze upon this child, divinity locks its gaze upon us. And no power in heaven, nor on this earth, can break the hold when those two loves meet.
So, the world will continue to swirl. Politics will still be divided tomorrow, wars will still rage, religious factions will still be at each other, refugees will still be fleeing, change will still be coming way too fast, some will still have too much, and far too many will still have far too little—nothing much will have changed, and yet, everything has changed.
We are putty in God’s hands. We have gazed upon this babe, and we have fallen in love and fallen hard. The transformation of our entire being has already begun, and, just like a chemical reaction, there is no stopping that process once it has been ignited. There is no turning back.
You may have thought you could come here tonight and observe from a safe distance. You may have thought you could enjoy all the magic of this night and, tomorrow morning, return to your life, business-as-usual, but you can’t.
In this birth, we have been born anew.
The only question we will have to answer tomorrow is this: What will we do with this divinity that has been placed in our hands? Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
December 24, 2016
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Advent 4—Year A video link
Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18
Seven more days until Christmas…are you excited? I’m excited. There is this pressure mounting; this momentum building. It’s that excitement that always attends that last few days before a birth; that beloved wonderment that fills us when the new is just about to be revealed, but still hidden just out of sight.
But birthing new life is always risky business. It doesn’t always go as planned. So, before we go all gooey-eyed at that swaddled babe in the manger that we will meet in Luke’s gospel on Christmas Eve, Matthew comes crashing in today on this fourth Sunday of Advent to say, “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
You see, Joseph and Mary weren’t yet married when all this went down. They were deeply committed, engaged to be married, but they had not yet taken those most intimate steps of marriage. So, it was a bit of a surprise when Mary was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit. I mean, let’s do be fair to Joseph, that would be a bit much for any fiancé to wrap their mind around, let alone their heart. Joseph was known to be a righteous man; he had an impeccable reputation in the community. People looked up to him, and there was a certain amount of pride that Joseph took in being perceived that way.
It is such a short step from living in accord with God’s way to getting hooked by the affirmations that come when people look to you as an example. Oh, the false self is a hungry self, demanding to be fed, and it doesn’t really matter to that self where the food is coming from; it just knows it wants more—and it’s not too long until you start to worry more about what people will think of you than you do trying to move with the curve ball that God has just thrown you.
God’s funny that way. Just when we think we’ve got our life figured out, and we’re at the top of our game, God comes along and says, “Hmmm, not so fast. Remember, who you are in me has nothing to do with what that amorphous “they” think of you.” But Joseph was bitten with the righteous bug, and he resolved to do what society expected him to do, divorce his beloved betrothed who was with child.
This sense of righteousness was Joseph’s core value; it was the orienting principle of his life, and while it made him susceptible to other’s opinions, it also made him want to do the right thing by way of the woman he loved. So, he resolved to dismiss her quietly because he was unwilling to expose her to public disgrace. A painful decision for Joseph, but also an honorable one.
But God wasn’t much interested in Joseph’s honor. God wanted to take Joseph deeper than Joseph had ever gone before. I don’t think Joseph took his decision lightly; I think it tore him up, and that turmoil did something to him. Joseph was so armored up by his sense of righteous duty and by his inner turmoil, that God had to wait until Joseph went asleep and his defenses were down to be able to get to him.
In that disarming, open state that comes to us when we sleep, God sent an angel of the Lord to visit him. “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins, he will set them free from all those things that are sorely hindering them.”
Translated, that angel of the Lord might well have sounded like this: “Joseph, you’re going to have to lay your sense of righteousness aside; you are going to have to let that piece of your false self go, you are going to have to lean into vulnerability harder than you have ever had to lean before, you are going to have to trust without verification, trust without certainty, trust without any social support, trust that what I am telling you is true.”
Vulnerability—defined by Brené Brown as risk, uncertainty, and emotional exposure. It’s the birthplace of so many things that we run away from—like thinking that vulnerability equals weakness and powerlessness—and it’s the birthplace of all that we long for—creativity, possibility, love, new life. But you cannot get to the new life without passing through the fires of vulnerability, and sometimes, they burn, like Malachi said, “like a refiner’s fire.” I wish it were otherwise, but it ain’t so.
Joseph had to lay down the armor of his reputation and his sense of righteousness to embrace the vulnerability of relying only on the movement of God, and a dream, and the Holy Spirit.
As we prepare for this birth, what armor do we have to lay aside? What are we protecting in ourselves that is actually keeping us from receiving the new life that God wants to birth in us? What spaces in our being, in our psyche, in our heart, in our mind, in our bodies, in our souls need to be opened up and aired out if we are truly to be that mansion prepared for God’s very own self that the opening collect talks about this morning?
All this work we are called to do, by the prophets, by the angel of the Lord, it’s all to fulfill what God has always promised—that God would come to that which we think couldn’t or shouldn’t bear life and fill it with divine presence and dismantle our armor, so that we can know in the depths of our being Emmanuel—God with us.
But we are asleep to this most amazing promise; we are asleep to this most amazing possibility. We cling to our defenses, and our armor, and our reputations and call it living. But in the words of the angel, “Fear not!” God will not be deterred. God will search for that opening; God will come to us in the middle of our sleep state and send an angel crashing into our dreams to invite us and woo us into that place of vulnerability that we do not wish to go and whisper in our ear that if we just go there it will be okay.
And when we wake up, we know something has shifted; a decision has been made from which there is no going back. We have heard the angel’s call, and our hearts can’t resist the life that is yearning to be born in us. We know we have to follow this invitation; we experience it as a command from God; we can’t not follow.
So it was for Joseph—when Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took [Mary] as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
So it was for Joseph, and so it is for us. This fourth Sunday of Advent calls us to release whatever is keeping us from participating in this birth that is to come one week from today. Let God help you lay your armor down; trust that your heart is safe in God’s hands. Hear the angel’s voice, maybe in that sweet voice of Bob Marley, “Singin’ don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be alright…Singin’ don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”
Let that song carry you forward through your fear, and then, wake up and risk everything so that this child may be born in you, and in your neighbor, and in the world. Amen.
The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
December 18, 2016