Sermon — September 22, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Sometimes we talk about our spiritual lives as a kind of quest, an adventure toward an unknown destination in the hope of finding treasure along the way. We seek enlightenment. We look for meaning. We talk about finding God in the sunset, or in the woods, or finding God in other people.

And life is a quest, a voyage into the unknown. The world is a complicated and strange place, and let’s face it: You can show up to church every week, you can try to spend some time in meditation or in prayer, you can talk a walk through nature or through the city as often as you like, but you never know quite when or where you’re going to encounter God.

Except, here’s the thing: Jesus tells us exactly when and where to find him. It’s just that when we do, it sometimes doesn’t quite feel how we expect.

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So, the New Testament and I have been on close personal terms for a while now, and I can think of four different places where Jesus tells us where we can find him when we go looking.

First and foremost, he says that we can find him in the Eucharist, in the bread and wine that we receive, after he hear him say, yet again, “This is my Body,” and “This is my Blood.” However physically or spiritually you want to interpret that, the Church has always believed and the experience of individual Christians has often confirmed that we encounter God in a unique way in this communion meal; that this is not only a symbol or a reminder of Christ’s life, but a place in which he truly does become present. So, place one: bread and wine.

Place number two, Jesus tells the disciples that “where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” (Matthew 18:20) And we tend to extrapolate from there—where two or three or thirty-tree or three-hundred-and-three are gathered in Jesus’ name, there Jesus is among them. So when we come here, on Sundays; or when a smaller group gathers on Thursday mornings for our Bible study, or Thursday evenings for Centering Prayer; whether it’s the choir rehearsing or the Garden Committee pruning or the children of the church stampeding around, wherever two or three are gathered in his name, Jesus is there.

Third: Jesus tells us that we find him in people who are hungry and thirsty, sick or in prison or in need of clothes. He tells us that whenever we feed someone who is hungry, we feed him; whenever we clothe someone who lacks clothing, we clothe him; whenever we visit someone who is sick or in prison we’re visiting him. And after listing each of these specific cases, he states the general principle: “Truly I tell you,” he says, “just as you did it to the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:31-40)

These three are the ones we tend to repeat in the Church. The high church folks will tell you about the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The low church folks will tell you about finding Jesus in a small group gathered for prayer. The social justice wing of the church has started whole ministries on the basis of this last quotation from Matthew 25. Heck, just this week one Episcopal Church out in Oregon just won a $400,000 lawsuit against their city, which tried to shut down their ministry to people who are homeless and hungry, because a federal judge agreed that feeding people who are hungry is a religious act.

But we don’t often talk explicitly about the fourth place Jesus tells us we will meet him in this world, the one that he tells us about in the Gospel reading today.

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The disciples are arguing with one another about who is the greatest. They have, as usual, completely missed the point. They’ve forgotten the reminder that if they want to follow him, they should take up the cross. They still think they’re going to find greatness in this world; that following the way of the cross on which Jesus will die will somehow lead to glory.

So he tells them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all, and servant of all.” And then he takes a “little child” and he “puts it among them,” and he says: “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” (Mark 9:37) And that’s the fourth place you can find Jesus, according to him. Not only when you receive communion or gather in his name; not only when you feed the hungry, or visit the sick; but even when you welcome a child in Jesus’ name, you’ll find Jesus there.

You might draw a connection to Jesus’ message about what true greatness is. You might even draw a connection to words we heard just before it, from James. The disciples are full of the wisdom of this world. They have “bitter envy and selfish ambition” in their hearts. They are, as James says, “boastful”; their arrogance will lead to “disorder and wickedness of every kind.” (James 3:14-16)

But then Jesus shows them a child. And on the one hand, the ideals of childhood seems to match so much of what James has to say. It’s the children of the world, Jesus might seem to say, the innocent, pure, humble children of the world, who are the model for the adults; it’s not the leader who’s the most arrogant or brash who is the greatest, but the one who is the most child-like.

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On the other hand: Have you ever met a child?

I love children. I really do. I love my child, I love the children of this church. Taking children seriously, listening to their hopes and their concerns, is as much a part of my job as listening to the rest of you. And really, it can be pretty fun.

But I have never yet met a child who is “peaceable” and “willing to yield,” “full of mercy” and “without a trace of hypocrisy.” Sometimes it feels like half the day is taken up with “coveting something” that they “cannot obtain,” and that’s not to mention the inevitable “disorder… of every kind.” Not to mention, if Jesus’ issue is that the disciples are standing around arguing about who’s the best, then I don’t think being more like children is going to solve the problem.

Only: That isn’t what he says.

He doesn’t tell the disciples that if they want to become great, they should become more like children. He tells them that if they want to become great, they need to be willing to care for children. He tells them that they need to get down off their pedestals and welcome a child. They need to give up their pretensions to theological perfection and get their hands dirty instead, sometimes very literally.

Caring for children doesn’t always feel like a spiritual practice. It doesn’t tend to replenish and refresh us in the kind of way we’re looking for when we say we’re seeking God. There are moments of awe and wonder, of course, and plenty of fun, but “welcoming children,” in Jesus’ name or not, is exhausting work. Jesus tells us that when we do welcome children, we will encounter God there. But it doesn’t always feel like we’re encountering God. Sometimes it just feels very loud.

But of course: That’s true for those other three places, too. We don’t always feel God where we know we meet God. It’s a rare person who comes to communion every week and experiences a deep sense of spiritual fulfillment. We feel this way sometimes, but less often than we hope or need.

Wherever two or three are gathered in his name, Jesus may well be there. But churches are made of people—that’s the problem—and they are as full of rudeness and bad behavior as any other collection of people is. Many, many people burn out on the church, not because of any big trauma or abuse, but because of a thousand small frustrations that lead them to wash their hands of it all.

It’s easy to romanticize the act of feeding people who are hungry, or visiting people who are in prison; even visiting someone who’s sick isn’t always so pleasant. People act like people do, and even more so when they’re going through a hard time.

And yet, Jesus tells us that we will find him there. This is what it means to do what he said last week: to take up our crosses and follow him. This is what it means to be great in the kingdom of God, to roll up your sleeves and serve. To do something that might not feel like you’ve arrived at an enlightened state; but to do something to care for someone whom society considers “the least” of its concern. And to remember that even if you don’t feel God in that moment, Jesus is right there.

Sermon — September 15, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers and sisters,
for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness.” (James 3:1) Amen.

James’s warning seems both funny and appropriate today, as we plan to bless our students and educators, to offer prayers for those who learn and, perhaps especially, for those who teach. Classes, after all, have begun, from kindergarten all the way through college. Our Sunday School classes will begin next week. Our Thursday-morning group is already underway. We’re making plans for possible confirmations later this spring. And of course, every Sunday includes a moment of teaching right here, during the sermon.

James may be writing mostly about the kind of teaching we encounter in church. He’s warning his readers about the dangers of the preacher’s untameable tongue, about the higher bar that’s set for theological ramblings from the pulpit than casual conversation among friends. We entrust clergy with an uninterrupted fifteen minutes a week, and we have the power to do great good and/or great evil, depending on what we say, to be sure. But teaching isn’t just something I do, or something teachers do. It’s something we all do.

Every day of all our lives, every one of us is demonstrating something to the people around us. Every word we say models what is it to live a kind and loving life to the people around us. Or it doesn’t.  And if what James has to say is true for all of us, because we are all subject to the power of the tongue.

The bit in a horse’s mouth is tiny, James say, compared to the huge body of the horse; (3:3) a rudder is small, and yet it can turn the whole ship. (3:4) A small flame can start a forest fire, he says, and you better believe that the tongue is a fire. (3:5-6)

You may already know this to be true. If you’ve ever hurt the feelings of someone you love by saying something you shouldn’t—has this ever happened to you?—then you know what James means when he says, “From the same mouth come blessing and cursing.” And you can probably agree when he says, “My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so!” (3:10)

And yet, as James says, “All of us make many mistakes.” (3:2)

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Our Gospel reading proves the point. It’s incredibly easy to say something wrong, even if most of what you say is right.

Jesus is walking with his disciples through the villages near Caesarea Philippi, thirty miles or so north of their home base in Galilee. And he asks the disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” They tell him there’s a rumor going around that Jesus is John the Baptist, returned from the dead to take vengeance on Herod and finish the work of repentance he began. Others say something even grander, that Jesus is Elijah, who had been taken up into heaven in a chariot of fire a thousand years before, and who was supposed to return before the Messiah came. Others are little more down to earth: he’s a prophet, and that’s reason enough to follow him.

“But who do you say that I am?” Jesus asks. And the disciples are silent. Maybe they’ve been listening to James. Maybe they’re afraid to make a mistake. All of the disciples are silent except one. Peter answers him, simply, “You are the Messiah.” (Mark 8:29) And while Jesus warns them not to tell anyone, (8:30) Peter is right. For now.

And Jesus begins to explain what being the Messiah means. What he says might seem familiar to us, because we already know how the story unfolds. But it’s shocking to them. Yes, Jesus is the Messiah, the anointed one of God. But he hasn’t come to resurrect the royal line of David and set up a new kingdom here on earth. He’s here for something else. This Messiah is going to suffer, and be rejected, and be killed, and after three days rise again. And I get the sense that Peter is so outraged by the first half of all that that he doesn’t even hear the end. He’s so upset about the failure and suffering of Christ that he doesn’t even hear the part about the resurrection. Peter takes Jesus aside and starts to rebuke him: Bad, Jesus! No! (8:32) But Jesus turns it right back around: “Get behind me, Satan!” (8:33)

Poor Peter. This is why nobody else wanted to raise their hand in class.

Of course, Jesus isn’t rebuking Peter because his answer was wrong. Jesus is the Messiah. He’s rebuking the temptation that Peter offers. And this makes sense based on who “Satan” is in the Bible: Satan is the accuser, the tempter, the one who afflicted Job to see if he would curse God, the who enticed Jesus with food during his wilderness to tempt him during his fast. Here, Peter is the tempter, the one who tries to lure Jesus away from the hard road toward the easy path. Surely, if he’s the Messiah, he doesn’t need to suffer. Surely he doesn’t need to die. But Peter’s temptation doesn’t undermine Jesus’ courage. It doesn’t turn him away from sacrificing himself to save us all. He rebukes Peter for his mistake, and then he explains: If you want to follow me, don’t try to tempt me away from a difficult life. If you want to follow me, then follow me along that same road. Take up your cross, he says. Make your own choice to sacrifice something for the good of someone else.

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Words matter. But actions matter even more. Following Jesus isn’t just going to be a matter of saying, “You are the Messiah.” It’s going to take a willingness to give something up for love.

I wonder what that might mean for you. I wonder what it might mean to “take up your cross.” It doesn’t mean what it meant for Jesus. It doesn’t mean that you need to endure violence or pain at the hands of another person. You don’t, and you shouldn’t. But it means something. It means that if you want to follow Jesus—if you want to walk in love, as he loved us—You’re going to need to give up whatever is hindering your ability to love. And I can’t tell you what that is, for you. But there’s a chance that you already know, and it’s just that taking up your cross is hard.

And that’s the bad news, or the challenging invitation, for today.

But there’s good news, too, and it’s as much a part of this letter and this story as the rest. “All of us make many mistakes,” says James, the Brother of Jesus, Bishop of Jerusalem. Not “all of you,” but “all of us,” who teach. And yet his very words, his very teachings, still stand, two thousand years later, a part of the Bible’s canonical text. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter seems to say to Jesus, the Son of God. “You’re wrong about what the Messiah is supposed to do,” he tells the Messiah. This isn’t the high priest or the Roman governor, a Pharisee or Sadducee—this is Peter, who used to be Simon except that Jesus named him Peter, which means “Rock” in Greek, because he is the rock on whom Jesus will build the church. I love to point out from time to time how wrong or foolish Peter can be. Not because I want to put him down, but because it’s an incredible symbol of God’s forgiveness and grace that a person who is so imperfect, a person who makes so many mistakes, can still become the chosen and beloved instrument of God’s work in the world.

And so can you, you beloved, imperfect, child of God. Unless you are, as James says, a perfect person, you have made and you will make many mistakes in this life, including and especially with your tongue, with the words that come out of your mouth. But mistakes are not forever. Mistakes can be forgiven. The bit that turns the horse one way, can turn it back the other. The rudder can turn the ship to starboard as easily as to port. Mistakes can be forgiven, and mistakes can be corrected. And in a life which sometimes feels like it’s full of tests—whether we’re in school or out of it—it’s good news to remember that the one who’s grading you loves you so much that he took up his cross and laid his life for you. Amen.

Sermon — September 8, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

After Wednesday’s mass shooting at Apalachee High School in Barrow County, Georgia, our political leaders restarted their recurring theological debate over the effectiveness of prayer and its importance relative to action in the face of the crisis of gun violence in America. I’m a little disturbed to admit that on before the shooting, on Tuesday afternoon, I spent some time with our reading from the Epistle of James and then sat down and wrote most of a sermon about the connection between early Christian debates over faith and works and the modern American debate over the use of the phrase “thoughts and prayers.” On Tuesday, it seemed like a decent way to connect the Bible to the real problems of our world. By Wednesday, I just felt sad, because the need for public figures to offer such thoughts and prayers over and over again is sad.

But here we are in church. And so I do want to begin not by offering my thoughts and prayers in the abstract, but by actually praying…

You’ve probably never heard a politician stand up at a campaign rally and declare, “Faith without works is dead!” (James 2:17) But the debate over “thoughts and prayers” pretty closely follows this other, theological debate over the relationship between two sorts of things that we sometimes shorthand by calling them “faith” and “works”. In both cases, it’s easy for things to become overly-abstracted into phrases like “justification by grace through faith” or “Second Amendment rights.” What I love about James is that he makes things very concrete. “If your brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill’… What is the good of that?” (James 2:16) When you see someone cold and hungry and offer them a prayer for warmth instead of your spare coat, are you “loving your neighbor as yourself?” (Jame 2:15–16) James’s answer is simple: no, you’re not. Faith alone, without work—prayer, alone, without action—is dead.

James lists food and warmth. We might add safety to the list, and we might ask in James’s words: If a person offers prayers for our children to be safe, but does not use the power they have to make them safer, “what is the good of that?” (James 2:17)

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I want to step back and provide some of the theological context for this debate over faith and works, words and action. It’s a debate that began in the early Church with the apostles James and Paul, was picked back up in Martin Luther’s criticism of the late-medieval Catholic Church, and has continued to the present day.

Indeed, you’ll sometimes hear James’s “faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead” countered with the words of the apostle Paul, when he writes, in his Letter to the Galatians, that “a person is justified not by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ.” (Galatians 2:16) This is part of Paul’s broader understanding of salvation. The requirements of the law are so strict, the burden of the law is so great, Paul suggests, that none of us can fulfill it. If God is going to judge us on how precisely we’ve followed God’s commandments, then we’re all in some serious trouble. But there’s good news, Paul says; we are “justified,” we are restored to right relationship with God, not because we’ve fulfilled every point of the law perfectly, but because we’ve put our faith in Christ. It’s Jesus who has fulfilled the law on our behalf; only Christ the King, Paul reply to James, can truly fulfill “the royal law of love.”

Of course, It’s easy to see how you could take this much too far. If we are justified by faith, and not by works, then why do good things at all? If we are all sinners in need of redemption, then we can excuse any amount of bad behavior, so long as the person later says that they repent. If we’re free from the law and we depend only on God’s grace, then why does it matter whether we act? God’s in charge. Paul himself rejects this misunderstanding. But it’s clear that many people took his wrods this way.

Paul is really writing against people who claim that Gentile converts to Christianity need to adopt all of the law, including practices of circumcision and kosher food regulations that essentially mean that they must first convert to Judaism in order to become Christian. James is really writing people who think they need to keep none of the law, not even to feed and clothe their neighbors. If they’d just sat down, you might think, they could’ve worked this out. And in fact, they did. Paul and James and Peter and John met up in Jerusalem, and they agreed that Gentile converts didn’t have to follow the whole body of Jewish law, as long as Paul and his followers agreed to remember the poor, and so it was: faith and works exist in a balance, although we’ve been arguing about the balance ever since.

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Our tradition offers us a beautiful image for this relationship, right there in the Historical Documents section of your Prayer Book, in Article XII of the 39 Articles. These articles are the classic formulation of the Reformation-era faith of the Church of England, and while they don’t always capture our own lives of faith perfectly well, they’re full of little gems. Article XII says, “Albeit that Good Works… cannot put away our sins, and endure the severity of God’s judgment… yet are they pleasing and acceptable to God in Christ, and do spring necessarily of a true and lively Faith; insomuch that by them a lively Faith may be as evidently known as a tree discerned by its fruit.”

Elizabethan theological prose is not always easy to parse by ear, so let me explain. Our good works alone, the Article admits, cannot atone for sin. We cannot, by working hard enough, earn our way into God’s good graces. (And so God comes down, in Christ, to bridge that gap instead.)

Nevertheless, the Article continues with a very English kind of reasonableness. The good things we do are “pleasing and acceptable to God.” And more than that. They’re not just nice to have, they spring “necessarily” from a true and lively Faith. There is no stark conflict between “faith” and “works”; when a person is filled with faith, it inevitably bubbles up out of them in good works, such that that you can actually know a “lively Faith” by good works, just as you can know a living tree from its good fruit. And this is what it means that “faith, if it has no works, is dead.” Just as the lack of fruit on a tree might be evidence that the tree isn’t thriving, the lack of love and kindness might be evidence that your faith is dying. In a strange way, praying for something to happen and refusing to make it happen shows a kind of lack of faith; a lack of faith that God might answer your prayers through you.

There’s only one person for whom faith and works are the same, and it’s Jesus. Only for Jesus, the Word-made-flesh, are words the same as deeds. Only Jesus can say “you may go—the demon has left your daughter,” and simply make that true. (Mark 7:29) Only Jesus can simply say, “‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened,’” and open someone’s ears. (Mark 7:34) For Jesus, prayer is the complete action; for the rest of us, prayer is only the beginning.

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So here’s your homework for today.

In a few minutes, we will offer our thoughts and prayers. We’ll pray for the Church and for the world in ways general and specific. We’ll pray “for the peace of the world,” and for specific nations engaged in war. We’ll pray for “the welfare of the holy Church of God,” and for people we know and love who are unwell. We’ll pray for the widowed and orphans, for the poor and the oppressed. And our prayers are good. Our prayers are worthwhile. But none of us is Jesus. None of us can just say “Ephphatha” and make it so.

So I want to invite you to pick one prayer that you’re going to turn into a deed; one part of your faith, from which a good work will spring. Pick one of the politicians we pray for today, and write them a letter about something that you care deeply about. Or pick one person on the prayer list, who you know well or not as well, and give them a call.

Not because God will condemn you if you don’t. Not because you will be justified by works of the law if you do. But simply because if our prayers are genuine, they should not end in our hearts, but should move us to do something with our hands. Because if we truly believe God is answering our prayers, we need to be ready to accept that we might be part of the answer.

Sermon — September 1, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Well, it’s Labor Day tomorrow and only the real hard core has showed up to church today, so we’re going to have fun. I’m going to see if, in the next thirteen minutes or so, I can convince you to become full-on Bible-thumpers. In a way. My crazy proposition for today is this: Sometimes the only way to defend yourself against the moralistic criticism of the holier-than-thou is to know the Bible well. To put it another way: If someone’s trying to condemn you or control you in the name of God, sometimes the Bible is part of the problem; but often, it’s part of the solution, too.

And Jesus knew this well. In our Gospel reading today, Jesus confronts a group of people who try to use their own religious beliefs to condemn his disciples, and he doesn’t do it by backing off from Scripture. He does it by embracing what’s actually in the Bible; by insisting that if Scripture doesn’t require him to do something, neither can you, and thereby setting his disciples free from their demands.

This confrontation isn’t about any of the culture-war issues of our day. The Pharisees aren’t arguing with him about sexual orientation or gender identity, the ordination of women or access to abortion or any of the many other things on which churches today disagree. They’re attacking him because they see thatsome of his disciples are eating with unwashed hands.

This is not advice for your Labor Day barbecue. They’re not talking about washing your hands with soap and water before you cook or eat, to wash bacteria and dirt away. They’re talking about a ritual purification. In some later Jewish traditions, it takes the form of pouring water from a cup over each hand three times before a meal. It’s not about hygiene, but about purity.

The very fact that this practice existed, and was widespread enough that Jesus could be criticized for some of his disciples not doing it, reflects a trend in ancient Judaism of expanding the scope of purity laws from the Temple to daily life, from the holiest days to the everyday.

In the system of Biblical law in the Old Testament, “purity” is not a moral or an ethical status; it’s a ritual one. It’s not “wrong” to be impure. Sometimes it’s right, or even required. Impurity results from a wide enough variety of things that an ordinary person living an ordinary life should expect to be in a state of “impurity” with some regularity. And that wasn’t a problem. Purity was only required in the presence of holy things in the Temple, a place where most ordinary people only went for major holidays a few times a year. If you were just living in a village somewhere in Galilee, the whole system of purity laws meant you needed to immerse yourself in a ritual bath every once in a while, before the highest holy days. As far as religious rituals go, these purity regulations were not really a big deal.

Now, this is deeply dissatisfying to the pious religious mind. Surely, we devoted people tend to think, religion must be harder than that. If it’s good to be pure in the Temple, then it’s good to be pure all the time. And there’s clear archeological evidence that over time, these practices of purification took on a life of their own. We find ritual baths spread throughout the ancient Jewish world, even far from Jerusalem, and descriptions of purification that are detached from the Temple, as people who technically didn’t need to be “pure” began to practice ritual purification as part of daily life.

Handwashing is just a small example of this trend. It originates in a single commandment in Exodus that instructs the priests, the sons of Aaron, to wash their hands and feet before they go to the altar, to ensure that the hands that touch the holy food offered to God are not impure. (Ex. 30:17-20)  But like many pious practices, it expanded over time. If it’s good for the priests to wash their hands before they touch the food that will be sacrificed on the altar, isn’t it even better for us all to wash our hands before we touch food of any kind? It certainly can’t hurt.

And the context is important, too. Remember that Mark is writing down Jesus’ words a few decades after Jesus spoke them, most likely a few years after the Temple had been destroyed. When the rituals in the Temple could no longer take place, the rituals that had happened around the worship in the Temple began to take their place: and so as early Christianity began to emerge and separate from the rest of the Jewish society around it, these practices like handwashing became even more widespread, even though the reason for ritual purity to exist was no longer there.

Jesus didn’t mind, either way. Jesus wasn’t telling his disciples not to wash their hands before meals because in the Bible, that was only required of the priests. And you can tell this because the Pharisees’ concern is that some of Jesus’ disciples weren’t washing their hands, which means that some of them were. But the Pharisees come to Jesus and confront him. They ask, “Why do your disciples not live according to the traditions of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7:5)

And that’s when Jesus gets a little mad.

“Now just you wait,” he seems to say. “Now I know who Isaiah was talking about when he talked about people who worship God in vain, ‘teaching human precepts as doctrines.’” (Mark 7:7) It was you! There’s nothing wrong with adopting some extra pious practice for yourself, but don’t you dare insist on it for everyone else. You can hear the echo of our first reading from Deuteronomy in Jesus’ mind: “You must neither add anything to what I command you nor take anything away.” (Deut. 4:2) But the Pharisees have elevated their own traditions, which are fine in and of themselves, to the status of God’s own law.

And then Jesus goes on, turning things around with an accusation of hypocrisy. You, who are not priests descended from the sons of Aaron, follow commandments you don’t need to, in line with human traditions that say you should; but you abandon the commandments of charity and love. You lose sight of what it is that really defiles, he says: not impure hands touching food before it goes into our mouths, but impure hearts from which evil intentions come. I don’t know whether Jesus’ accusation is fair. Perhaps the Pharisees in front of him weren’t quite so bad as that. But he’s making a real point, recalling people’s attention to the commandments at the heart of what it is to follow God.

In this story, Jesus defends his disciples against a pious complaint by adopting a kind of strict Biblical interpretation. And he can only do this because he’s deeply familiar with the text. He knows where the commandment in Exodus ends, and where human traditions begin. He’s confident in quoting Isaiah off the bat. He doesn’t use this knowledge to condemn those of his own followers who want to adopt this special pious act. But he does use it to defend those who are under attack.

Jesus would make a darn good Episcopalian, I think. Or rather—we Episcopalians have a chance here, to become even better followers of Christ: to embrace and act upon our values of inclusion and love, not by shying away from the text of the Bible but by diving further in, by finding and learning

To take just one small example: Over the summer, we celebrated the 50^th anniversary of the first ordination of women as priests in the Episcopal Church. For centuries, women’s ministry had been restricted to the ministry of laypeople; for more than a thousand years, women were told there was no place for them at the altar. Sometimes the Bible was quoted. Sometimes it was human tradition, whether religious sexism or misogynistic philosophy. But in fact, the Bible is relatively clear. Women played a leading role in the leadership of the early Church. Not only the women who followed Jesus to the tomb, and were the apostles to the apostles, the first ones to proclaim Easter’s good news. Not only the women like Lydia who led early gatherings of the disciples. But women who are given the titles of what would become ordained ministries, like “Phoebe, a deacon of the church at Cenchreae,” (Romans 16:1), and Junia, who is “prominent among the apostles.” (16:7) It’s no surprise that it was the most Protestant churches, least bound to human tradition and most drawn to the Bible, who began ordaining women first, then Episcopalians later with our murky in-between, and who knows whether our more siblings in the Catholic and Orthodox worlds, where tradition is elevated to the same level as Scripture, will ever allow the same.

So, okay: Maybe you’re not ready to Bible-thump quite yet. But I want to encourage you to read the Bible, at least; to mark, as one of our prayers says, and learn, and inwardly digest it; because it can be not only the source of inspiration, comfort, and strength; it can be the source of liberation too, as Jesus knew so well.

Sermon — August 25, 2024

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

There comes a point in every one of our lives when we must make a choice between two different paths. There’s no compromise, no way to split the difference. There are two roads laid out before us, one here and one there, and we have to decide which one we’re going to follow.

I’m talking, of course, about the difficult choice between following the road signs and the GPS.

Now, I drive a remarkably-reliable eleven year old car, which came with a wonderful but now quite unreliable built-in navigation system. It’s the kind of early 2010s device where if you want updated maps, you have to send away for a USB drive to plug in and update them, and I have to admit, I never have.

And so there are certain parts of certain routes where, a decade after installation, my GPS is just entirely wrong. Sometimes this happens when I know the route, as when the GPS tries to send me whirling around a rotary that no longer exists, somewhere in Somerville. It more often happens on some highway somewhere out of state, where the entry and exit ramps have moved around, and the GPS tells me to go straight for half a mile, then change between I-95 and I-91 by sailing off through the sky on a ramp that’s no longer there. (Which, to be fair, would not even be the worst driving I’ve seen in New Haven, Connecticut.)

Anyway, at those moments you face a choice between two different sources of authority offering two different visions of reality, and you need to choose which one to trust, and which one to follow. And in a way, this is what every one of our readings this morning is about.

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Our first reading tells the story of the choice that Joshua offered to the ancient Israelites at the very end of their journey into the Promised Land. The people have crossed the Red Sea on their way out of slavery in Egypt, led by Moses. They’ve wandered forty years in the wilderness, complaining all the way, and Moses has seen the Promised Land from the mountaintop before he dies. Now Joshua has led them in, and they’ve battled with the people of the land. And years later, after a long time of peace, Joshua’s life is drawing to its end, and he gathers all the people and offers them a choice.

Remember the stories of your ancestors, he tells them: remember Terah and Abraham and Nahor, who lived beyond the river and served other gods. Remember their descendants, you parents and grandparents, the ones who were enslaved in Egypt, and served Egyptian gods there. Remember the gods your ancestors served, and how that went for them.

And remember the story of the God we now serve, and what that God has done for you. Remember how he brought your parents up out of slavery. Remember how he protected them through those long years in the wilderness. Remember how he led you into this Promised Land.

(And for this Sunday, at least, let me just acknowledge that the old stories of conquest and violence as the people came into the land have echoed down the ages, with very real effects. And let me say that if you’re curious about the intersection between these stories and Israeli-Palestinian relations today, I’m happy to talk about that any time; even though I’m not going to talk about it right now.)

So Joshua offers a choice between two ways: you can choose the gods your ancestors served long ago and far away, you can follow their traditions and practice their ancient rites; or you can choose the God who brought you up out of Egypt, and set you free. But one way or another you must “choose this day whom you will serve.” (Joshua 24:15)

More than a thousand years later, another Joshua arose, another leader among the people of that land. We tend to call this one what the Greeks and Romans called him. Their languages had no sh sound, and ended masculine words in s, and Hebrew pronunciation had changed as well, so they spelled his name not Yeshu’ but Jesus. In other words, we call him Jesus, but Jesus and Joshua are the same name.

And like that ancient Joshua, Jesus offered the people around him a choice; implicitly, this time, but a choice all the same. He didn’t ask them to choose between one god and another. Nearly everyone who appears in all the stories in the gospels was faithful to the one God of the Jewish people. Their choice, in our reading this morning, was whether they could accept the strange teachings of this man, the almost-grotesque idea that they should “eat [his] flesh and drink [his] blood,” which we talked about at some length last week. (John 6:56)

“This teaching is difficult,” his disciples said when he told them this. “Who can accept it?” (6:60) And it’s actually unusual, how this story goes. Here, it’s not “the Jews” or “the Pharisees” or “the Sadducees” who criticize Jesus’ teaching, as the various gospels often say. It’s “his disciples,” the people who’ve faithfully followed him so far. He teaches something strange and hard, and they complain. But Jesus doesn’t yield, he doubles down on his claims, and “because of this, many of his disciples turned away.” (6:66)

But a faithful remnant remains, a core group built around the twelve, the ones who we will come to call apostles. And they don’t stay, you might notice, because they think that this teaching is easy to believe. They don’t even acknowledge that what he’s saying might be true. They don’t stay because they accept his words. They stay because they believe in him. They trust him. And so, Peter answers on their behalf, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (6:68)

They’ve made the choice that he’s the one who knows how the right directions, and they’re going to follow him, wherever the rest of the traffic may be going. They’ve decided that, however strange some of what he says may seem, he is, to paraphrase what Jesus says elsewhere in the Gospel of John, not only “the truth” and “the life”; he is “the Waze.” (I’m so sorry. I am, in fact, a dad.)

So the disciples choose to follow Jesus. And they choose again to stay the course, to remain faithful when others back away. But it’s not until much later that the disciples feel what Paul calls “boldness.” It’s not until much later that their faith transforms from something that they have to struggle to accept, to something that gives them strength, a shield and helmet and armor that protects them from all the evils of the world. This “boldness” is one of Paul’s favorite words, and he means the kind of extraordinary strength it takes to stand up and declare the truth when it’s much easier to say nothing. To stand for what is good in a world that’s often beset by evil. And to remain not only confident in but comforted by what you know to be true, even when the people around you are shocked.

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There’s a kind of growth in these stories, from decision to faithfulness to boldness. And you could imagine this as a typical trajectory in spiritual life. The story of your faith might have a beginning, when you make the decision to follow, the decision to choose which god to serve; when you choose who gets to be your judge and what values will shape your life. This is when you choose which way to go. The story might have a middle, in which your faith is tested; in which the road becomes more difficult, when you’re not so sure that your decision was right, or something unexpected happens, and you wish you’d gone the other way, after all. And then later, the story might end with a kind of boldness, a sense of certainty that you’ve gone the right way, and a comfort that the destination is finally in sight.

And yet the story of a life is rarely as simple as 1, 2, 3; decision, faithfulness, boldness. They’re not really three phases of a story, after all, neatly ordered in a row. They’re three episodes, three common patterns of life, that we cycle through again and again and again. It sometimes seems that every week or every month or every year, we have to choose to commit ourselves again to the things that we believe, and it can become a burden. But it’s also a gift: the fact that we need to choose again and again to do the right thing means that we get to choose again and again. We are given a thousand chances to follow in Jesus’ way of love, and when we choose the wrong path, it’s never too late to get off at the next exit, and take a U-turn, however inconvenient it may be.