Where were you thirty eight years ago? I was fresh out of high school, working at a drug store for a dollar an hour, thinking about heading off to college in the fall. Richard Nixon was the president. Gold was about $165 an ounce. The #1 song was “Locomotion,” done by Grand Funk Railroad. Thirty eight years ago, most of you weren’t born yet. For all intents and purposes, 38 years is a lifetime ago.
I raise the question to highlight how long this man had waited, helpless, at the pool of Bethesda. St. John mentions that the pool had five porticoes. From time to time an angel would come down and stir up the water; the one to enter the water first would be healed.
Perhaps we can see here a veiled reference to the Law of Moses. It was made up of five books; it was ministered by angels…but it lacked the power to bring about change.
The problem wasn’t the Law; the problem was, as St. Paul says elsewhere, that through fear of death we were subject to lifelong bondage. So close, and yet so far away.
The paralytic wanted to be healed. Why else would he stay there for thirty eight years? But, as he told the Lord, “I have no man to help me.” Wanting to be healed wasn’t enough.
“I have no man to help me.” He spoke those words to the one and only man who could help him—the God-man, Jesus Christ. With one word from Christ, thirty-eight years of waiting come to a sudden end. “Get up,” the Lord says, “take up your bed and walk.” And at once the man got up.
Beloved, this paralyzed man has much to teach us—first, that self-help strategies count for nothing, unless we are connected to Christ. If we could change those things that trouble us by ourselves, wouldn’t we have done it by now? And yet we think, “Why trouble God with this problem? I should try to fix it myself. If I could just find the right self-help book…” Listen to the paralytic—he gets it right. I have no man to help me. There can be no healing, no forgiveness, no change in my life apart from Jesus Christ.
Second, he reminds us about patience. How many of us give up on prayer for some great need because our prayers are not answered at once? How many of us consign ourselves to hopelessness because our weak wills aren’t able to bring about change in our lives? God is faithful to his promises. Ask, and you will receive. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened to you.
And let us reflect on the pool of Bethesda—literally, “the house of mercy.” Like so much in the Old Testament times, it was a foreshadowing of something greater to come. This healing water, touched by angels, points forward to the greater and better water of Holy Baptism. Bethesda healed bodies; baptism cleanses souls. Bethesda healed one only, and from time to time; baptism washes each and every one who comes, no matter when they come.
When, then, we struggle with our own paralysis, let us return to our baptism. For there we were joined to the God-man, Jesus Christ. We were buried together with him by baptism into death, so that as he rose from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. Let us not grow faint because the struggle is long; but let us read and ponder God’s promises and cling to Christ in prayer.
And finally, as Christ gives us healing let us guard ourselves from falling back to where we came from. When Christ meets the man in the Temple he tells him, “Look, you are made well. Sin no more, lest something worse befall you.” Don’t read this as a threat—it isn’t. Christ doesn’t say, “Sin no more, lest I get angry with you.” He says, “lest something worse befall you.” Christ does not heal us so that we may seek our own will; he heals us so that we might seek his will.
So if the struggle is long—keep at it! Wait on the Lord in prayer. Seek his face. He isn’t ashamed to help paralytics, and tax collectors, and prostitutes. The only folks he has no time for, are those who have no use for him. Return to your baptism, and trust that he who joined you, there, to Christ, will continue to work in your life until he brings you at last to his Kingdom, of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
06 May 2012
18 April 2012
Epictetus on not fearing want
Does God so neglect his own creatures, his servants, his witnesses, whom alone he uses as examples to the uninstructed, to prove that he both is, and governs the universe well, and does not neglect the affairs of men, and that no evil befalls a good man either in life or in death?
Yes; but what if he does not provide food?
Why, what else but that as a good general he has sounded the recall? I obey, I follow, lauding my commander, and singing hymns of praise about his deeds. For I came into the world when it so pleased him, and I leave it again at his pleasure, and while I live this was my function--to sing hymns of praise unto God, to myself and to others, be it to one or to many.
Yes; but what if he does not provide food?
Why, what else but that as a good general he has sounded the recall? I obey, I follow, lauding my commander, and singing hymns of praise about his deeds. For I came into the world when it so pleased him, and I leave it again at his pleasure, and while I live this was my function--to sing hymns of praise unto God, to myself and to others, be it to one or to many.
01 April 2012
Homily for Sunday of St. Mary of Egypt (Fifth Sunday in Lent)
“Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or to be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” That’s the question Christ posed to James and John, all eager to sit next to him in his glory. They answered yes, but they didn’t know what they were saying. James would be martyred just a few years after the resurrection. John would be sent into exile and suffer many things before he reposed.
You see, to be worthy of sharing in Christ’s glory, we must first share in his suffering. There’s really no other way. No suffering, no glory. The New Testament makes it plain, again and again. In our text, Christ speaks of suffering in terms of sharing his baptism and his cup. When we receive the holy mysteries, we are embracing everything about Christ—especially his sufferings. As St. Paul says in Romans, “we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”
Sometimes that suffering comes unsought. James didn’t try to get martyred; John didn’t seek to be exiled. They were faithful to Christ, and that’s enough to get into trouble.
Other times we embrace suffering for Christ’s sake. That’s what we’ve been doing this Lententide—learning to say “no” to ourselves in matters of prayer, alms and fasting. “No” isn’t a bad word, it’s a good word, it’s a life-changing, life-saving word. But “no” is never an easy word.
So how’s it going for you, this Lententide? Are you winning victories against the devil, the world, and your sinful flesh? Or are you feeling beaten down, discouraged and downright cranky? “Are you able to drink Christ’s cup, and receive his baptism?” For me, it’s been a real struggle.
That’s why our holy fathers were so wise to place the story of St. Mary of Egypt right at this point in our Lenten journey. She lived a loose life, selling herself not just for food, but for pleasure. When she tried to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and wasn’t able to, she was convicted of her sin. She came to repentance, and faith, and so was able to enter and receive the Holy Mysteries. Then, fortified by that food, she journeyed into the desert to fight against her passions for forty eight years.
We sometimes act like St. Mary and the other saints were different from us…that they were able to drink Christ’s cup, and receive his baptism. But St. Mary herself confessed to Fr. Zosima that for seventeen years she fought against the old passions and desires. And she wasn’t able, in herself, to win.
She herself told Fr. Zosima, “But when such desires entered me I struck myself on the breast and reminded myself of the vow which I had made, when going into the desert. In my thoughts I returned to the ikon of the Mother of God which had received me and to her I cried in prayer. I implored her to chase away the thoughts to which my miserable soul was succumbing. And after weeping for long and beating my breast I used to see light at last which seemed to shine on me from everywhere. And after the violent storm, lasting calm descended.”
Are you able? Am I? In a word, no! But neither were the saints. They learned from experience to call on God and his Mother in their weakness…and by the intercession of the Theotokos, God answered their prayers. He joined their sufferings with Christ’s sufferings. And through those sufferings—Christ’s sufferings, in which they joined—they entered his glory.
We must stop thinking of ourselves as separate from Christ. When we cut ourselves off from him, we wither and fail. But the whole point of everything in church is that we are joined with him. We were buried with him through baptism into death; he gives us to share his own body and blood, and so becomes one flesh with us. We are joined to Christ. Only in this way, beloved, will we ever be able to drink his cup, or share his baptism.
So don’t be discouraged. Take our mother Mary of Egypt as an image of repentance. Receive Christ as he comes to you in the mysteries. And he will give you grace to drink his cup, and share his baptism, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
You see, to be worthy of sharing in Christ’s glory, we must first share in his suffering. There’s really no other way. No suffering, no glory. The New Testament makes it plain, again and again. In our text, Christ speaks of suffering in terms of sharing his baptism and his cup. When we receive the holy mysteries, we are embracing everything about Christ—especially his sufferings. As St. Paul says in Romans, “we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”
Sometimes that suffering comes unsought. James didn’t try to get martyred; John didn’t seek to be exiled. They were faithful to Christ, and that’s enough to get into trouble.
Other times we embrace suffering for Christ’s sake. That’s what we’ve been doing this Lententide—learning to say “no” to ourselves in matters of prayer, alms and fasting. “No” isn’t a bad word, it’s a good word, it’s a life-changing, life-saving word. But “no” is never an easy word.
So how’s it going for you, this Lententide? Are you winning victories against the devil, the world, and your sinful flesh? Or are you feeling beaten down, discouraged and downright cranky? “Are you able to drink Christ’s cup, and receive his baptism?” For me, it’s been a real struggle.
That’s why our holy fathers were so wise to place the story of St. Mary of Egypt right at this point in our Lenten journey. She lived a loose life, selling herself not just for food, but for pleasure. When she tried to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and wasn’t able to, she was convicted of her sin. She came to repentance, and faith, and so was able to enter and receive the Holy Mysteries. Then, fortified by that food, she journeyed into the desert to fight against her passions for forty eight years.
We sometimes act like St. Mary and the other saints were different from us…that they were able to drink Christ’s cup, and receive his baptism. But St. Mary herself confessed to Fr. Zosima that for seventeen years she fought against the old passions and desires. And she wasn’t able, in herself, to win.
She herself told Fr. Zosima, “But when such desires entered me I struck myself on the breast and reminded myself of the vow which I had made, when going into the desert. In my thoughts I returned to the ikon of the Mother of God which had received me and to her I cried in prayer. I implored her to chase away the thoughts to which my miserable soul was succumbing. And after weeping for long and beating my breast I used to see light at last which seemed to shine on me from everywhere. And after the violent storm, lasting calm descended.”
Are you able? Am I? In a word, no! But neither were the saints. They learned from experience to call on God and his Mother in their weakness…and by the intercession of the Theotokos, God answered their prayers. He joined their sufferings with Christ’s sufferings. And through those sufferings—Christ’s sufferings, in which they joined—they entered his glory.
We must stop thinking of ourselves as separate from Christ. When we cut ourselves off from him, we wither and fail. But the whole point of everything in church is that we are joined with him. We were buried with him through baptism into death; he gives us to share his own body and blood, and so becomes one flesh with us. We are joined to Christ. Only in this way, beloved, will we ever be able to drink his cup, or share his baptism.
So don’t be discouraged. Take our mother Mary of Egypt as an image of repentance. Receive Christ as he comes to you in the mysteries. And he will give you grace to drink his cup, and share his baptism, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
26 February 2012
Homily for Cheesefare 2012
We are damned by ourselves; we are saved in community. We need to keep that in mind as we begin this Lententide. In last night’s Vespers we heard Adam sitting outside Paradise, mourning his Fall. The Fall brought death—separation—in Adam’s relationship to the world, to his wife, and to God. You may remember that when God confronted Adam, Adam blamed Eve. And Eve blamed the serpent. It was everyone for himself.
Still today we reap the fruit of that bitter harvest. St. Paul speaks of reveling and drunkenness, of debauchery and licentiousness, of quarreling and jealousy. Just consider drunkenness. Many folks get drunk for one of two reasons: either they want to overcome their own insecurity to make it easier to relate to others…or they want to forget the pain and brokenness of relationships that went bad. Either way, they end up lonelier and more isolated than ever.
That death, that separation, can even be seen in the church. Again, St. Paul speaks of the stronger and weaker brother. One man eats all kinds of food; another eats only vegetables. (By the way—did you notice that Paul says it’s the weaker man who eats only vegetables? We need to remember, as we enter the Fast, that fasting is a confession of our weakness, not something to boast about.) Even in the church, differences can lead to separation…alienation…death in our relationships.
In his mercy, Christ God gives us the weapons we take up during Lent to make us stronger, and to enliven our life together. “When you fast,” he says, because fasting turns me away from concern for my own life. “When you give alms,” he says, because giving alms makes me think of the other person, the one who lacks the things he needs. Remember Christ says, “Make friends for yourselves by means of unrighteous mammon?” We use money to make friends, when we give it away.
And then, “When you pray.” Prayer restores our link to God. In the words of last night’s vespers, “I shall return to the earth from which I was taken, and I shall cry to Thee, O compassionate One, have mercy upon me who am fallen.”
Our prayer, our alms and our fasting don’t heal the breach between man and God. No; that was done when God the Son took on flesh from the most pure Virgin, and embraced our fallen condition. He fasted to overcome Satan; he prayed for fallen Adam and his seed; he gave the best he had, his own life, into death so that by his death we might have life. He rose victorious in the strife, to prove that the ancient breach was healed.
So why then do we take up the weapons of prayer, and fasting, and giving alms during Lent? It’s because like Zacchaeus, we would get a clearer view of Christ…like the Prodigal Son, we want to return home…because, while we live in the light, we want to do those things which Christ will praise on his return in glory.
We are damned by ourselves; we are saved in community. In a few moments we
will mark Forgiveness Vespers. Each of us will ask forgiveness from everyone else, for the ways we have hurt each other this past year…for the ways we have chosen our own concerns over the life of the community. We will pray the prayer of St. Ephrem, which says in part, “Grant me to see my own sins, and not to judge my brother.”
And we will offer more services during Lent. It isn’t easy to come more often to church, I know. It means giving up some of my own pursuits. It means making tough choices. But the Lenten fast is too hard to do on your own. We need each other, to encourage and support each other. We are damned by ourselves. We are saved in community.
So come, brothers and sisters; let us greet the Lenten fast with joy. Let us forgive one another; let us love one another; let us encourage each other as we make ready to celebrate Christ’s holy resurrection. For by his obedience he has conquered our sin; by his death he has conquered our death; and by his rising he has restored us to the image of that ancient beauty in which we once were fashioned.
Still today we reap the fruit of that bitter harvest. St. Paul speaks of reveling and drunkenness, of debauchery and licentiousness, of quarreling and jealousy. Just consider drunkenness. Many folks get drunk for one of two reasons: either they want to overcome their own insecurity to make it easier to relate to others…or they want to forget the pain and brokenness of relationships that went bad. Either way, they end up lonelier and more isolated than ever.
That death, that separation, can even be seen in the church. Again, St. Paul speaks of the stronger and weaker brother. One man eats all kinds of food; another eats only vegetables. (By the way—did you notice that Paul says it’s the weaker man who eats only vegetables? We need to remember, as we enter the Fast, that fasting is a confession of our weakness, not something to boast about.) Even in the church, differences can lead to separation…alienation…death in our relationships.
In his mercy, Christ God gives us the weapons we take up during Lent to make us stronger, and to enliven our life together. “When you fast,” he says, because fasting turns me away from concern for my own life. “When you give alms,” he says, because giving alms makes me think of the other person, the one who lacks the things he needs. Remember Christ says, “Make friends for yourselves by means of unrighteous mammon?” We use money to make friends, when we give it away.
And then, “When you pray.” Prayer restores our link to God. In the words of last night’s vespers, “I shall return to the earth from which I was taken, and I shall cry to Thee, O compassionate One, have mercy upon me who am fallen.”
Our prayer, our alms and our fasting don’t heal the breach between man and God. No; that was done when God the Son took on flesh from the most pure Virgin, and embraced our fallen condition. He fasted to overcome Satan; he prayed for fallen Adam and his seed; he gave the best he had, his own life, into death so that by his death we might have life. He rose victorious in the strife, to prove that the ancient breach was healed.
So why then do we take up the weapons of prayer, and fasting, and giving alms during Lent? It’s because like Zacchaeus, we would get a clearer view of Christ…like the Prodigal Son, we want to return home…because, while we live in the light, we want to do those things which Christ will praise on his return in glory.
We are damned by ourselves; we are saved in community. In a few moments we
will mark Forgiveness Vespers. Each of us will ask forgiveness from everyone else, for the ways we have hurt each other this past year…for the ways we have chosen our own concerns over the life of the community. We will pray the prayer of St. Ephrem, which says in part, “Grant me to see my own sins, and not to judge my brother.”
And we will offer more services during Lent. It isn’t easy to come more often to church, I know. It means giving up some of my own pursuits. It means making tough choices. But the Lenten fast is too hard to do on your own. We need each other, to encourage and support each other. We are damned by ourselves. We are saved in community.
So come, brothers and sisters; let us greet the Lenten fast with joy. Let us forgive one another; let us love one another; let us encourage each other as we make ready to celebrate Christ’s holy resurrection. For by his obedience he has conquered our sin; by his death he has conquered our death; and by his rising he has restored us to the image of that ancient beauty in which we once were fashioned.
22 February 2012
Homily on the Last Judgment
Space and time are so tied to our life that we rarely give them a thought. Indeed, our every thought presupposes them both. We are, all of us, artists. Space is the canvas we paint on, and time is the brush we use.
Sometimes we think about things we might paint on that canvas; it’s then we use the word “if.” If I eat less, and exercise more, I will lose weight. If I study, I will get better grades. “If” is a wonderful word. It lets us consider possibilities—what might be.
But other times, we think about things that most definitely will be painted on that canvas. At those times, we use the word “when.” I remember sitting beside Cindy on her parents’ couch. I had proposed to her three times, and each time she said, “Don’t ask yet.” But as we sat there, I heard her say, “When I’m your wife…”—and to be honest with you, I can’t remember what came after those words. I only remember stopping her, looking at her and saying, “When? I accept your proposal!” And here we are, nearly 34 years later.
Today’s Gospel begins with the little word “When.” “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all his angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne.” Today we remember that Christ’s return in judgment is not a possibility. It’s a certainty. It’s not an “if,” but a “when.”
And his words make us think about what we’ve been painting on the canvas we’ve been given. To those who have sought him and seen him in the least of his brothers, he speaks words of greatest joy: “Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. I was hungry, and you fed me; thirsty and you gave me drink…”
But to those who haven’t sought him or seen him in the least of his brothers, his words speak terror: “Depart from me, O accursed ones, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you didn’t feed me; thirsty and you didn’t give me a drink…”
For me, most of the paint on my life’s canvas is already put down, already dry, already set. And when I think about it soberly, there is much to inspire me with fear. I have not sought the Savior in the least of his brothers. I have thought myself somehow better than others. I have excused my sin, and blamed others for theirs. I have served my own passions and desires. I have not wept at the thought of my sins. I have lived in exile from the Father, and fed myself on pigs’ food.
Dear friends, we are a year closer to the time that today’s text will be an overwhelming reality. The text does not start with “if,” but with “when.” When the Son of Man comes, he will judge; and come he most certainly will.
What, then, is our hope? Only this: that in his goodness and love for mankind, then “when” has not yet happened. We who hear his words still live in time and space. There is yet more color in our brush; our canvas is not yet full.
Here and now, he bids us think of his other “when"s, now fulfilled. The virgin conceived and bore a Son, God with us. God the Word became flesh and visited us. He has clothed us with his own righteousness. He has fed our hunger and quenched our thirst with the finest of fare—his own life-giving body and blood.
Because our God is good and loves mankind, the “when” of judgment has not yet happened. He gives us a precious gift—the people in our lives, this place where we live—on which to write. He gives us time—not much time, but only “today”—with which we may write the message of his mercy on that canvas.
It is still not over. It is not too late. With the prodigal from last week’s gospel we can still say, “I will arise and go to my father and say, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; let me be your servant.”
We do not have forever, my brothers and sisters. But we do have today…today to meditate on his mercy…today to trust his goodness…today to show forth that goodness in the lives of all those he gives us to love.
Sometimes we think about things we might paint on that canvas; it’s then we use the word “if.” If I eat less, and exercise more, I will lose weight. If I study, I will get better grades. “If” is a wonderful word. It lets us consider possibilities—what might be.
But other times, we think about things that most definitely will be painted on that canvas. At those times, we use the word “when.” I remember sitting beside Cindy on her parents’ couch. I had proposed to her three times, and each time she said, “Don’t ask yet.” But as we sat there, I heard her say, “When I’m your wife…”—and to be honest with you, I can’t remember what came after those words. I only remember stopping her, looking at her and saying, “When? I accept your proposal!” And here we are, nearly 34 years later.
Today’s Gospel begins with the little word “When.” “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all his angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne.” Today we remember that Christ’s return in judgment is not a possibility. It’s a certainty. It’s not an “if,” but a “when.”
And his words make us think about what we’ve been painting on the canvas we’ve been given. To those who have sought him and seen him in the least of his brothers, he speaks words of greatest joy: “Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. I was hungry, and you fed me; thirsty and you gave me drink…”
But to those who haven’t sought him or seen him in the least of his brothers, his words speak terror: “Depart from me, O accursed ones, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you didn’t feed me; thirsty and you didn’t give me a drink…”
For me, most of the paint on my life’s canvas is already put down, already dry, already set. And when I think about it soberly, there is much to inspire me with fear. I have not sought the Savior in the least of his brothers. I have thought myself somehow better than others. I have excused my sin, and blamed others for theirs. I have served my own passions and desires. I have not wept at the thought of my sins. I have lived in exile from the Father, and fed myself on pigs’ food.
Dear friends, we are a year closer to the time that today’s text will be an overwhelming reality. The text does not start with “if,” but with “when.” When the Son of Man comes, he will judge; and come he most certainly will.
What, then, is our hope? Only this: that in his goodness and love for mankind, then “when” has not yet happened. We who hear his words still live in time and space. There is yet more color in our brush; our canvas is not yet full.
Here and now, he bids us think of his other “when"s, now fulfilled. The virgin conceived and bore a Son, God with us. God the Word became flesh and visited us. He has clothed us with his own righteousness. He has fed our hunger and quenched our thirst with the finest of fare—his own life-giving body and blood.
Because our God is good and loves mankind, the “when” of judgment has not yet happened. He gives us a precious gift—the people in our lives, this place where we live—on which to write. He gives us time—not much time, but only “today”—with which we may write the message of his mercy on that canvas.
It is still not over. It is not too late. With the prodigal from last week’s gospel we can still say, “I will arise and go to my father and say, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; let me be your servant.”
We do not have forever, my brothers and sisters. But we do have today…today to meditate on his mercy…today to trust his goodness…today to show forth that goodness in the lives of all those he gives us to love.
29 January 2012
Homily on the Canaanite Woman
Which of us here wouldn’t welcome a deeper, more abiding faith? With all the problems in our broader world, and the troubles in our own hearts and lives, a strong and vibrant faith could help us cope with life’s twists and turns.
All of us want it. The question is, how do we get it? We need not buy lots of books. We don’t have to travel on distant pilgrimages. We don’t have to change our address, or our job, or even our parish.
No; for each and every one of us, the answer’s much closer to home. Take a look at the woman in today’s Gospel. She had a daughter, every mother’s dream…but her dream had become a nightmare. Her daughter was demon possessed.
When she heard that Jesus had come to her neighborhood, she went to ask his help. “Lord, have mercy; my daughter is demon possessed.” And how did he respond?
First he gave her silence. But she wouldn’t quit.
Then he told her he was sent only to Israel. But still she begged.
Finally he said, “It isn’t right to give the children’s bread to the dogs.”
She took him at his word and said, “Yes, Lord—yet even dogs get the crumbs.”
To us, it may seem as if the Lord is being cruel. We get so caught up in the coldness of his words, that we miss the warmth of his heart. And that’s because, I’m convinced, our experience of him is so different from hers.
We want to have deeper faith, but we don’t realize that the troubles, and problems, and sins we face in ourselves and in those we love are all the means God uses to strengthen our faith. We’re like a man who goes to the gym, and sees all the equipment, and says, “How will I ever get fit?”
Think about that problem you’ve been struggling with. Perhaps you told it to the priest in confession. Perhaps you’ve kept it bottled up inside. Then late at night, it all comes rushing in…a sinful habit you struggle to break…a relationship all in tatters… the loneliness of someone who’s single but doesn’t want to be…or the heartbreak of those who want to be parents, but can’t quite seem to conceive.
What’s the problem? What is it you carry around inside? Beloved, that’s the thing God means to strengthen your faith. For the woman, it was her daughter. For you—well, only you can say.
We must learn to tie the Gospel together with the pains and struggles we face—not only the little ones, but also the big ones, the ones we’ve gotten used to, the ones we think nothing can help.
“But I’ve tried to do that,” you say, “and it didn’t make a difference.”
When I taught at seminary, I met a most remarkable man. Cliff Lloyd was a Welshman who served in World War II. After the war, he helped in training troops. When he emigrated to Canada, he earned a PhD and was founding president of a university. But then he got a very bad stroke. It affected his speech and his mobility. He retired.
One day he phoned me. He was 76 year old, and wanted to get a theological degree. At first I tried to discourage him. But he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. The last time I saw Cliff—and he got his degree, by the way—he told me, “I have something for you.” Then he gave me a paper with a drawing on it. A large bird has just swallowed a frog. But the frog’s two arms are coming out of the bird’s mouth and grabbing the bird by the throat. Below the picture, the caption reads, “Never give up.”
Take a look this morning at your deepest hurts and heartaches—the things you just can’t wrap your mind around. Don’t just learn to live with them. See them for what they are—the parts and places of your life where God is working, calling you To call on him…
To exercise your faith…
To learn to persevere, like this Canaanite woman…
To say, with Jacob of old, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”
Our greatest problems are really our greatest opportunities, to learn with this woman to pursue God: to ask, and seek, and knock, and not be turned away until we have touched his very heart.
For his heart towards us is good, just as it was towards her. “Oh woman,” he said, “your faith is great. Let it be done as you ask.” And her daughter was healed instantly. The Lord is not cruel; how could he be? He died for us. The Lord is not apathetic; he came from heaven to seek and save us. The Lord is not powerless; he who made everything from nothing can give you what you need. He who raises the dead can surely bring new life to your heart and home. He who forgives sinners can cleanse you, and make you white as wool.
So keep on asking…keep on seeking…keep on knocking. He promises that everyone who asks, receives; everyone who seeks, finds; and to everyone who keeps knocking, the door will be opened. Let us try his words and prove that he is faithful!
All of us want it. The question is, how do we get it? We need not buy lots of books. We don’t have to travel on distant pilgrimages. We don’t have to change our address, or our job, or even our parish.
No; for each and every one of us, the answer’s much closer to home. Take a look at the woman in today’s Gospel. She had a daughter, every mother’s dream…but her dream had become a nightmare. Her daughter was demon possessed.
When she heard that Jesus had come to her neighborhood, she went to ask his help. “Lord, have mercy; my daughter is demon possessed.” And how did he respond?
First he gave her silence. But she wouldn’t quit.
Then he told her he was sent only to Israel. But still she begged.
Finally he said, “It isn’t right to give the children’s bread to the dogs.”
She took him at his word and said, “Yes, Lord—yet even dogs get the crumbs.”
To us, it may seem as if the Lord is being cruel. We get so caught up in the coldness of his words, that we miss the warmth of his heart. And that’s because, I’m convinced, our experience of him is so different from hers.
We want to have deeper faith, but we don’t realize that the troubles, and problems, and sins we face in ourselves and in those we love are all the means God uses to strengthen our faith. We’re like a man who goes to the gym, and sees all the equipment, and says, “How will I ever get fit?”
Think about that problem you’ve been struggling with. Perhaps you told it to the priest in confession. Perhaps you’ve kept it bottled up inside. Then late at night, it all comes rushing in…a sinful habit you struggle to break…a relationship all in tatters… the loneliness of someone who’s single but doesn’t want to be…or the heartbreak of those who want to be parents, but can’t quite seem to conceive.
What’s the problem? What is it you carry around inside? Beloved, that’s the thing God means to strengthen your faith. For the woman, it was her daughter. For you—well, only you can say.
We must learn to tie the Gospel together with the pains and struggles we face—not only the little ones, but also the big ones, the ones we’ve gotten used to, the ones we think nothing can help.
“But I’ve tried to do that,” you say, “and it didn’t make a difference.”
When I taught at seminary, I met a most remarkable man. Cliff Lloyd was a Welshman who served in World War II. After the war, he helped in training troops. When he emigrated to Canada, he earned a PhD and was founding president of a university. But then he got a very bad stroke. It affected his speech and his mobility. He retired.
One day he phoned me. He was 76 year old, and wanted to get a theological degree. At first I tried to discourage him. But he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. The last time I saw Cliff—and he got his degree, by the way—he told me, “I have something for you.” Then he gave me a paper with a drawing on it. A large bird has just swallowed a frog. But the frog’s two arms are coming out of the bird’s mouth and grabbing the bird by the throat. Below the picture, the caption reads, “Never give up.”
Take a look this morning at your deepest hurts and heartaches—the things you just can’t wrap your mind around. Don’t just learn to live with them. See them for what they are—the parts and places of your life where God is working, calling you To call on him…
To exercise your faith…
To learn to persevere, like this Canaanite woman…
To say, with Jacob of old, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”
Our greatest problems are really our greatest opportunities, to learn with this woman to pursue God: to ask, and seek, and knock, and not be turned away until we have touched his very heart.
For his heart towards us is good, just as it was towards her. “Oh woman,” he said, “your faith is great. Let it be done as you ask.” And her daughter was healed instantly. The Lord is not cruel; how could he be? He died for us. The Lord is not apathetic; he came from heaven to seek and save us. The Lord is not powerless; he who made everything from nothing can give you what you need. He who raises the dead can surely bring new life to your heart and home. He who forgives sinners can cleanse you, and make you white as wool.
So keep on asking…keep on seeking…keep on knocking. He promises that everyone who asks, receives; everyone who seeks, finds; and to everyone who keeps knocking, the door will be opened. Let us try his words and prove that he is faithful!
22 January 2012
Homily on Zacchaeus
They say that curiosity killed the cat, but curiosity brought Zacchaeus life. He was curious about Christ, and when he heard that the Lord was coming to his town, he did a very cat-like thing: he climbed a tree.
Why the tree? For one thing, he was short. But that wasn’t all. For him to get in the midst of a crowd could be dangerous. After all, he wasn’t the favorite man in town. He was a chief tax collector, and he was very good at his work.
He must have thought things through, too—like a cat planning to catch its prey. Jericho was a big, busy city with lots of streets and lanes. Which street would Christ come down? Which tree on that street would be best to climb?
So there he was, perched in his tree like a cat. But when the Lord passed by, the game of cat-and-mouse was reversed. Christ stopped in his tracks, looked up, and caught Zacchaeus where he was…he caught him with love.
He called Zacchaeus by name. “Zaccchaeus,” he said, “come down. I must stay today at your house!” When we hear it, we might miss the word “must.” “I must stay today at your house.” It wasn’t an option. It was part of his plan, all along.
Quickly Zacchaeus scooted down the tree. He didn’t worry what others thought. He didn’t think about what other plans he might have had for the day. He was completely captured by Christ’s love.
The crowd complained…they always do, don’t they? So Zacchaeus said to Christ, “Look, Lord! I give half my goods to the poor; and if I’ve taken anything from anyone by false accusation, I restore it four-fold!” Think what this meant: Zacchaeus was sold out for Christ. He was choosing to go from riches to rags. He was choosing poverty; or rather, he was making friends by means of mammon.
Today, in the midst of winter, the smell of Spring is in the air—the Lenten Spring, that is…the light of repentance. It’s only a few short weeks till we begin our journey to Christ’s cross and tomb—and then, the joy of Pascha.
For on that day when Christ called Zacchaeus down from the tree, he was very near the time when his journey took him to another tree—the cross. There he hung between heaven and earth as the noblest fruit. By being raised on that tree, he overcame the fall that resulted from another tree. He put death to death by death, and brought our life to light.
Today the Lord Jesus passes by again. He calls us by name. He bids us come down from the trees we’ve put ourselves in…to come to him for salvation—healing and wholeness.
So let us loose our grip on the things that hold us back: our pleasures and possessions, our sin and selfishness. Let us, like Zacchaeus, find our pleasure in giving away possessions. Let us who receive Christ’s very life in the Eucharist, learn to share that life. He who gave himself into death for us, will provide the things we need to live with him, and bring us at last to his heavenly Kingdom, of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Why the tree? For one thing, he was short. But that wasn’t all. For him to get in the midst of a crowd could be dangerous. After all, he wasn’t the favorite man in town. He was a chief tax collector, and he was very good at his work.
He must have thought things through, too—like a cat planning to catch its prey. Jericho was a big, busy city with lots of streets and lanes. Which street would Christ come down? Which tree on that street would be best to climb?
So there he was, perched in his tree like a cat. But when the Lord passed by, the game of cat-and-mouse was reversed. Christ stopped in his tracks, looked up, and caught Zacchaeus where he was…he caught him with love.
He called Zacchaeus by name. “Zaccchaeus,” he said, “come down. I must stay today at your house!” When we hear it, we might miss the word “must.” “I must stay today at your house.” It wasn’t an option. It was part of his plan, all along.
Quickly Zacchaeus scooted down the tree. He didn’t worry what others thought. He didn’t think about what other plans he might have had for the day. He was completely captured by Christ’s love.
The crowd complained…they always do, don’t they? So Zacchaeus said to Christ, “Look, Lord! I give half my goods to the poor; and if I’ve taken anything from anyone by false accusation, I restore it four-fold!” Think what this meant: Zacchaeus was sold out for Christ. He was choosing to go from riches to rags. He was choosing poverty; or rather, he was making friends by means of mammon.
Today, in the midst of winter, the smell of Spring is in the air—the Lenten Spring, that is…the light of repentance. It’s only a few short weeks till we begin our journey to Christ’s cross and tomb—and then, the joy of Pascha.
For on that day when Christ called Zacchaeus down from the tree, he was very near the time when his journey took him to another tree—the cross. There he hung between heaven and earth as the noblest fruit. By being raised on that tree, he overcame the fall that resulted from another tree. He put death to death by death, and brought our life to light.
Today the Lord Jesus passes by again. He calls us by name. He bids us come down from the trees we’ve put ourselves in…to come to him for salvation—healing and wholeness.
So let us loose our grip on the things that hold us back: our pleasures and possessions, our sin and selfishness. Let us, like Zacchaeus, find our pleasure in giving away possessions. Let us who receive Christ’s very life in the Eucharist, learn to share that life. He who gave himself into death for us, will provide the things we need to live with him, and bring us at last to his heavenly Kingdom, of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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