Sermon from preaching class

Here is a sermon I gave for my preaching class this past Friday. We had to choose lectionary dates for this coming summer, so this one is for Aug 3, 2014 (Proper 13). The Scripture passage is before the sermon.

Matthew 14:13-21

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. Amen.

I’d been planning this outing all day.

         While working for a study abroad program in Thailand, I found myself pulling 16 hr days without a second thought, devoting all my time to the needs and wants of this group of American students. I loved the work, and I loved the students.

         But this night was my night. My coworkers and I were going to a bar that was only accessible by taxi, meaning our students wouldn’t be there. I was dreaming of sitting in a room with no one who needed me and having a beer. Nothing crazy- just a break.

         Just then, one of the students came to the door of our office. I went to answer it cheerfully because I knew in 2 hrs I was gone. She was smiling, and said “Hey, I hear y’all are going to Sunset bar tonight. We’re all going to go too! Y’all want to split a cab?”

         My dream died, suddenly and completely. The space left by my dream was quickly filled with anger—it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how badly I needed a break, and how much I had been looking forward to getting away. How burned out I was.

         In our Gospel story today, we learn that a crowd unexpectedly showed up because they needed Jesus. Jesus “had compassion for them and cured their sick.” Despite the fact that they didn’t make an appointment and probably didn’t ask whether Jesus had already had a busy week at work, they showed up, and he loved them.

         But when reading this excerpt from Matthew, too often we go immediately to Jesus’ compassion and then to the miracle of loaves and fishes which follows. However, we learn in the first verse that  “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.”

         What had Jesus just heard? If we look back in in the chapter, we learn that Jesus had just learned of the death of John the Baptist. His mentor, relative, and loved one had just been cruelly beheaded by the government.

         So he went to be by himself. This piece of the story is just as important for us today as the miracle that follows it. It tells us that, in order for miracles to happen, we need to know when we need to be by ourselves.

         We need to take a break—we need to experience the healing of solitude with our God in order to feed the people that follow us.

         One must wonder if the miracle that follows would have been able to happen if Jesus had not gone to be alone earlier. What if this story displays more of a cause and effect than merely a progression of events? In other words, because Jesus took time for himself when he needed it, he was then able to feed thousands of people.

         When my students came to me and needed me…I didn’t respond in compassion. I saw them, and saw the crowd and their need, and became angry at it. I became angry because I needed. I needed time away, and had not taken it.

         The irony, of course, is that I was unable to be present because I had been so present, pouring myself out for them but without replenishing my own spirit. Needless to say, no miracles followed our encounter.

         But because Jesus withdrew to be by himself, to grieve, we are able to read verse 19 where it says, “Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds.”

         Miracles can be fruit of our solitude.

         But how we spend our time alone is just as important as making the time for it. After all, one can take time off from work and spend it tending to household chores, going to the grocery store, or any number of things that are really still work.

         Jesus didn’t leave the people and go grocery shopping. (Obviously).

         The difficult truth is that, sometimes in our ministries and work lives, we avoid taking a break because we actually don’t know what to do with it. We fear the silence and the feeling of meaninglessness that can accompany time without tasks.

         Beyond the to-do lists and calls, there is silence.

There is a vastness of time before us, and behind us. We are left with only ourselves and God. This is always a vulnerable place.

         But in the silence, there are two paths we can take. The path of loneliness, which is at times necessary, is also a path of pain. Perhaps in the desert, Jesus had to take this path for a time in order to name and let go of the pain resulting from the death of someone he loved.

The second path is the path of solitude, the path of peace and healing. Externally, both paths can look the same. They can both look like sitting on bench by oneself. It is the inner disposition, our inner posture, that determines the path we take.

Solitude feels like an ocean with its waves quietly and gently lapping across your feet and legs, the warmth of the sun on your skin and the light sea breeze in your hair. Loneliness is the brutal hit of a wave that was much bigger than you thought it was, the pull of the undertow as it tumbles you through water, sand, and salt.

Both are necessary for an ocean to be an ocean. And both paths are necessary for our spiritual journey. The key is being aware of how much time we spend on each. Have we fallen in love with the feeling of being pummeled by the waves? Do we think we deserve the peace of God upon us?

Our inner journey matters because it ultimately becomes our outer journey as well.

         Henri Nouwen, a priest and prolific author, writes “Loneliness makes us cling to others in desperation; solitude allows us to respect others in their uniqueness and create community.”

         What Jesus does in the Gospel narrative is spend time with the pain and sadness that comes with loving and letting go. What Jesus does next in the Gospel narrative is feed thousands by the grace of God. Solitude, the path of peace, transformed the world in an event so miraculous it is one of the few present in all 4 Gospels.

         As Christians, we are called to follow the example of Jesus and strive to live according to his ways. So if Jesus took time for his own spiritual life, why shouldn’t we?

         Interestingly, times of crisis often help us see through our own “busyness.” Jesus loses someone he loves, and he withdraws to a deserted place. But it shouldn’t always take a tragedy to remind us that we are able to call out to God with our deepest yearnings and sighs.

Our spiritual lives must be vibrant and authentic if we are to perform miracles in the name of Christ. If we are to have compassion on the crowd, we must first withdraw into ourselves for a time of healing with God, our Rock and Redeemer.

One must wonder if the reason miracles are so hard to find nowadays has more to do with the state of our spiritual lives than it does with God’s presence in our world.

        

Will you pray with me?

Lord, you sent us your Son to teach us how to live the lives you desire for us. Give us the strength to follow, the humbleness to trust, and the love to compel us towards you. In our times of silence, enable us to be healed according to our needs. Be with us, and be ours as we are yours. We ask this in the name of your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Why do we work for social justice?

            I have often said that social justice brought me to seminary. It was my gateway, the only way I felt comfortable walking back into a church. In many ways, it brought me into the Episcopal Church, which has taken bold stances on issues which are typically considered “justice” issues, at least by the left (gay marriage, ordination of women, immigration, etc).

            These stances, for the most part, reflect my beliefs about how people should be treated. They reflect my admittedly liberal social stances while still holding onto a deeply historical faith and tradition.

            But, the recent 50^th anniversary of the March on Washington and the accompanying discussions of civil rights in America have made me reflect more on the fight for social justice. What is it in us that causes some of us to fight for an issue some call social justice and others to fight against an issue they call heresy?

            Many of the commentators on the March seemed saddened when they saw all the old photos, heard all the old speeches and songs. They seemed sad because we as a nation realized that we hadn’t made very much progress in the areas of jobs and justice.

            In an op-ed in the Washington Post by Courtland Milloy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/50-years-later-black-leaders-words-lack-fire/2013/08/24/783e9de6-0cfb-11e3-b87c-476db8ac34cd_story.html), he wrote that “A march for justice organized by radicals a half-century ago was commemorated Saturday by a civil rights establishment now fully incorporated into the American mainstream. The result was a day filled with irony as speakers criticized a status quo that some black leaders have helped maintain.”

            A powerful admonishment, to be sure. I was unable to attend the March, and so I can’t comment on that particular aspect any further.

            But the comment spoke to something I have been struggling to acknowledge in myself lately—much of my social justice work stems from the sense that I am right, and you are wrong. I am right about gay rights, and you are not. “We” are right about issue X, and “you” are not. To reference Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., much of my social justice work has been a futile effort to build a new world with the tools of the old.

            In social justice work, I worry that we do not spend enough time talking about the role our own egos play in the actions we take. The peril of the left is that we promote the idea of equality for all, of justice for all, while not really meaning it for our conservative brothers and sisters. On the extreme ends of the left and right, the vitriolic words and close-minded stances look largely the same when you put the content on mute.

            But closer to the middle, where I try to land, the line between my own ego’s sense of right and my understanding of what God calls me to can become perilously blurred.

            Fr. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan and one of my favorite authors, wrote,

I think that the great disappointment with so much political activism, even many of the non-violent movements of the 60s and 70s, and why many people were not long-lasting in these movements, is because these movements did not proceed from transformed people. They were coming from righteous ideology of either Left or Right, from mere intellect and will, and not from people who had put head, heart, body, and soul together. We need to find inside ourselves the positive place of communion, of holiness, where there’s nothing to react against. Pure action is when you are acting from a place which is good, true, and beautiful. The energy at that point is entirely positive. Until you can find that, don’t act. I’m trying to keep you in there for the long haul. I’m trying to call forth an instrument that can really make a difference in the world. These people are the lightning rods of God’s energy into the world. They can be quite adamant, clear, and long-suffering. They can even allow themselves to suffer violence, like Jesus, instead of inflicting it on others.

When we act from our ego, we do not act from the place of God’s will in the world. In my experience, it is not very difficult to tell the difference. I find it to be most visible in myself when I react to another’s dissent with defensiveness and undeserved condescension. On the other hand, when I am working from the place of centeredness that is God’s domain, I find that it bothers me very little when others disagree with me because I am confidant in God to work something through even a disagreement.

In this place, my concern is less with being right or wrong, and more with being a vessel through which this person might encounter something of the Holy.

So, when I ask myself why I work for social justice, I must constantly check my motivations through prayer, meditation, and study of the Scripture. It is a centering post in my life, giving me the flexibility to hear others without fear and live alongside those who disagree with me. In this way, the liberal church has much to learn from our conservative brothers and sisters. We have been too apt to let our spiritual practices slide while thinking it creates time for more action, instead of realizing it renders our actions less than they could be, at best, or, at worst, a distortion of God’s hopes for the world.

Thus, when we review the progress we as a nation have made (or have failed to make), I wonder whether we should instead reflect on our own inner selves. Have we personally been transformed to live differently, or have we spent too much time trying to transform everyone else to think as we think?

The writings of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. seem to reflect this important distinction. He wrote, “Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.”

The frightening part is that even actions which on the surface appear altruistic can too often actually stem from this “darkness of destructive selfishness.”

This does not mean that we should not say what we think or act on what seems right. It is about changing the root of our action by reorienting ourselves towards a God who has historically proven able to hold many different kinds of Christian expression.

It is refocusing on how we disagree, not only what we disagree on. For my church, the Episcopal Church, this is certainly a struggle. Dioceses and parishes are leaving over the issue of homosexuality, among other things. Such divisions are sad, and (I hope) not irreparable. But I sense that the question of reparability lies more in how we choose to disagree now than it does in whether we can convince the other of our opinion.

And trust me—I am writing this just as much for myself as I am for others. I am passionate and have strong opinions on many topics. I like to “win” an argument and feel superior.  I love being with others who agree with me and enforce my sense of rightness.

But I must repent, reorient myself, and place myself with all seekers, especially those with whom I disagree.

The poet Rumi wrote, “Let the beauty of what you love be what you do.” As we struggle to bring the kingdom of God into this world, to make space for God to “let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream,” I pray that we let the beauty we love rather than the ugliness we hate guide our thoughts and actions.