The Action of Grace

You probably know by now that I have a soft spot for language, for an etymology or a translation that reveals a different facet of a common phrase. It’s easy, of course, to be tripped up by what language teachers call “false friends,” words that seem similar to English ones but mean something else entirely. And it’s all too common—especially among preachers—to put too much meaning on the “literal translation” of a phrase. Words, after all, mean more than the sum of the literal meanings of their parts: what they mean is what they mean in context, not what we can extract from a dictionary.

Caveats notwithstanding, I’ve always simply loved the following fact: The day that we call “Thanksgiving” in American English is known to Spanish speakers as El Día de Acción de Gracias, and to French Canadians as l’Action de Grâce, which—to perhaps lean on a “false friend”—you might over-literally translate as “the Day of the Action of Grace.”

Now to be clear, that’s an insight that’s less interesting than it sounds. Acción de gracias and action de grâce are simply how you say “giving thanks” in Romance language, and this has been true for thousands of years. If an ancient Roman wanted to thank you for holding the door, she’d say gratias tibi ago. English is a pirate language: we’ve simply plundered the vocabularies of French and Latin such that “action” and “grace” existing alongside words like “giving” and “thanks.”

But after years of practicing gratitude (grati-tude—there it is again!) in a generic sense around Thanksgiving, I find myself refreshed by this question: Not just “What are you thankful for?” but “What has been the action of grace in your life?”

For me, this flips the question around. If I try to reflect on my own gratitude, I find myself turning inwards. It’s a question about my own feelings about things. It’s a kind of nagging remind that I really ought to feel grateful for all sorts of things, even when I’m tired or frustrated or sad about something else.

But to look for the action of grace—that’s something else entirely. That’s a question that turns me outward. That’s a question that asks me to look for someone else’s action in my life, for God’s action in my life. It has very little to do with what I am feeling, and very much to do with what someone or something else is doing.

So what about you? As we head toward Thanksgiving Day, what are you thankful for? Or maybe—what has been the action of grace in your life this year?

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like…

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like…

 
 
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Sermon — November 13, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

When I walked here last Sunday morning for church, I saw a flatbed truck and a crane being operated by the Department of Public Works right over in Thompson Square. (Did anyone else see them?) Do you know what they were doing?)

If you walk by on your way home you’ll see a new tree. A tall, slender, evergreen tree. One might even call it… a Christmas tree.

And this was on November 6.

But I am not a Scrooge, and the reality is, even if Christmas is still six weeks away, even around church it’s “beginning to look a lot like…” Advent, at least.

Look no further than our readings this morning. If you don’t know much about how churches traditionally observed the season of Advent, they may not seem like they really capture the spirit of “the holiday season” that’s being celebrated in our lovely November Christmas tree. To be fair, our first reading from Isaiah gives you a certain kind of Christmassy feel: peace and joy, eternal life and new creation, the wolf and the lamb feeding together. In this reading from Isaiah you may already start to feel the joy of Christmas: the sweetness of the Prince of Peace lying in the manger, and angels bringing glad tidings of great joy.

Luke, today, gives us something else entirely: destruction and deception, famines and plagues, hatred and betrayal and portents from the heavens: the end is drawing nigh. And this, in fact, a traditional theme of theme, of the season leading up to Christmas. We sometimes associate the four Sundays of Advent and their candles in the wreath with the four themes of hope, peace, joy, and love. But the readings we get during Advent tend more toward the four traditional themes of Advent: death, judgment, heaven, and hell. They prophesy calamity and destruction, peril and alarm. They tell the story of a world being turned upside down. Advent doesn’t begin for another few weeks, but you can already feel the mood start to shift: The long summer where we listened to Jesus healing people and telling parables as he traveled toward Jerusalem is over. Jesus has arrived in the city where he will die, and he’s starting to predict some pretty scary stuff.

The Temple, Jesus says, is going to be destroyed. The center of his people’s religious life, the place where the people come to worship God, where heaven and earth intersect, is going to be dismantled stone by beautiful stone. When the disciples ask him when this will be, he warns them against trying to predict it. And he tells them that first they’ll have to go through trials and tribulations, to endure great suffering, not only the shared social suffering of natural disasters and political upheaval, not only the collective grief of losing the Temple that’s at the heart of their spiritual lives, but a specific and personal process of persecution and arrest. Everything will fall apart, in their lives, in their nation, in their whole world.

And in fact, it would and it did. But not quite yet. Everything Jesus said would in fact come true. There would be wars and insurrections, earthquakes, famines, plagues; his followers would be arrested and stand on trial because of his name. It would take months before his followers were arrested; years before the famines and the plagues. The Temple would survive for decades before it was destroyed at the end of a long war.

But it’s at this very moment—when the disciples are admiring the beauty of the Temple on their trip together to the big city—that Jesus tells them it will one day be destroyed.

And interestingly enough, that same paradox applies to the reading from Isaiah as well. It’s sometimes helpful to remember, when reading the Bible, that most authors don’t say things that go without saying. This beautiful prophecy comes from the very end of the book of Isaiah. It’s likely that it was written a few decades after the destruction of the first Temple, at the end of the people’s long years spent in exile, and maybe even after some of them had begun to return to Jerusalem. When the people began to return, many of them felt joy. They’d been refugees for fifty-something years. But it was mixed with sadness, because the city was not the same. The Temple had been destroyed. The population had been scattered.

And so when Isaiah offers this prophecy of hope, it’s not because the people are feeling hopeful, it’s because they’re disappointed. When he shares these words of eternal peace, it’s because they’re just recovering from the trauma of war. When he promises that he is about to “create new heavens and a new earth,” about to “create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight,” it’s because they’re sorely missing the old Jerusalem and they’re not feeling much joy or delight.

And so just as Jesus delivers his word of warning and woe at the very moment the disciples are feeling most comfortable, Isaiah delivers a prophecy of comfort when the people are feeling their most uncomfortable.

And there’s some wisdom in that. There may be times when you are feeling pretty good. You’re proud of what you’ve accomplished. You’re proud of what you’ve built. You want to stop and admire the beautiful stones and gifts that decorate your life. And it can be tempting to think that it will last forever. But the inconvenient truth is that it won’t. None of it will. Everything we have, and everything we’ve built, will one day be dismantled stone by precious stone. And we might find ourselves in the situation of the people in Isaiah’s day, people cast away in exile, grief, and loss.

But when we find ourselves living among the ruins, wondering where God could possibly be in all of this, that’s when Isaiah’s prophecy is there, promising new things, joyful things, a world without weeping or distress, violence or pain.

This kind of cyclical pattern is common in life, and of course recognizing it can give us a good perspective on things. It’s good to remember, when times are hard, that a better future lies ahead. It’s good to remember, when things are good, that they are not permanent, so we should appreciate and enjoy them while we can.

But the same pattern applies beyond just the scope of this life and extends past our deaths. For many of us, myself included, it’s a difficult truth to accept: nothing that we have can be held onto forever. And this is true whether you believe in Jesus or not. Every human being, of every faith and none, will one day die. Every building, no matter how beautiful or beloved, will one day crumble into dust. Nothing, however good, will last forever.

And yet God makes us a promise, which is a second and perhaps-even-more-difficult truth: that nothing we lose will be lost forever. That God is preparing a new heavens and new earth, like the old ones in many ways but much improved. That when it feels like our lives are being torn down around us, a new home is already being prepared for us, and we will one day reach that land of everlasting peace.

The Eleventh Hour

It’s hard for anyone alive today to imagine the sheer senselessness of the war that ended with an armistice on November 11, at “the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month” of 1918, the day once known as Armistice Day and now, in this country, as Veterans Day.

We can celebrate the heroic resistance to Nazi Germany’s aggressive expansion in the Second World War that would follow the First. I disagree profoundly with the reasoning behind the wars in Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq; but I can at least comprehend the arguments that were made for them. But the meaninglessness of the First World War boggles the mind.

Propaganda aside, there was no high moral purpose to the war. Millions and millions of teenage boys and young men lived, fought, and died in the mud. The nations of Europe virtually bankrupted themselves turning their entire economies into machines of mutual destruction. An entire generation of men and women were permanently traumatized by what they’d seen at the Front. Three of the seven main combatants collapsed into revolution almost immediately; two more disappeared off the map entirely, splintering into five or six new countries and launching even more wars. And… for what?

The First World War is a case study in bad leadership, brittle planning, and over-confidence. (The most baffling tidbit of trivia about the build-up to war, for me, is that German military planning made it literally impossible to begin mobilizing their reserves without actually launching an invasion of France and Belgium, leaving them no flexibility for diplomacy once the mobilization process began.)

Okay, I suppose that’s enough military history to make the point: On Veterans Day, we celebrate all those who have volunteered to serve in the nation’s armed forces, in peacetime or in war, and the express our gratitude for the sacrifices they have made. But we also recognize the horror of war. We commend those thrown into it against their will and for no good reason at all, and honor the many hardships they endured. And above all else we celebrate the Armistice, the end of the war, the beginning of an all-too-brief peace at the end of years of destruction, and we pray for peace for our people and for the world, now and for ever.

25. For those in the Armed Forces of our Country (BCP p. 822)

Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and
keeping all the men and women of our armed forces at home
and abroad. Defend them day by day with your heavenly
grace; strengthen them in their trials and temptations; give
them courage to face the perils which beset them; and grant
them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

4. For Peace (BCP p. 815)

Eternal God, in whose perfect kingdom no sword is drawn
but the sword of righteousness, no strength known but the
strength of love: So mightily spread abroad your Spirit, that
all peoples may be gathered under the banner of the Prince of
Peace, as children of one Father; to whom be dominion and
glory, now and for ever. Amen.

“‘The Pledge of our Inheritance’”

“‘The Pledge of our Inheritance’”

 
 
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Sermon — All Saints’ Sunday, November 6, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“You were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit;
this is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption.” (Eph. 1:14)

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Over the last few years as a freelance web developer, in addition to my work in the church, I’ve learned a lesson that many contractors before me have learned as well: It’s best for everyone involved if you’re paid 50% up front and 50% when you finish a project.

If you’re paid 100% on completion, of course, you spend the whole project working for free. A difficult client who wants to keep pushing for changes or expanding the scope of work has all the power in the relationship; they won’t pay a dime until they’re finally satisfied with what you’ve done, even if it ends up being far more work than the original contract. And if you’re paid all up front, well… There’s not much of an incentive to do the job. If you’ve ever worked with a contractor who disappeared once you wrote the final check, leaving behind a punch-list of small items that would never be completed, you know what I mean.

50-50 is the best of all worlds. And people have known this for generations. Years ago archaeologists found an ancient papyrus in Egypt, from nearly 1500 years ago, describing one such freelance operation. “Regarding Lampon the mouse-catcher,” the author writes, “I paid him 8 drachmae as earnest money in order that he may catch the mice.” More to follow, one assumes, once the mice are actually caught.

It’s the very same word, translated in the letter as “earnest money,” that Paul uses to describe the gift of the Holy Spirit. In the letter it’s translated “pledge,” but it means the same thing. The Holy Spirit that we experience in this life is, Paul writes, God’s down payment, God’s 50% up front toward the promise of our redemption.


This is part of what’s sometimes called the “now and not yet” in Christian life. You have already, Paul writes, “heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and believed.” (Eph. 1:13) You have already been “marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit.” (1:13) You have already received a “pledge,” earnest money, as an advance on the riches of your inheritance. (1:14) But God’s work in you is not yet complete. You do not yet know—we do not yet know—“the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.” (1:19)

Hopefully, this “now and not yet” makes some intuitive sense. You know that your spiritual life is not just “paid on completion,” as if we only experienced suffering and misery in this world, and had to wait for peace and joy in the next one. We already now experience the comfort and love of the Holy Spirit, in many different ways. But we also know that things aren’t perfect yet. We know that that “golden evening,” that “glorious day,” those “pearly gates” are describing some reality that we do not yet inhabit. God has promised us something better, and the promise has not yet been fulfilled. We’re still waiting for that final check.

But here’s where the analogy breaks down. If we’re spiritual freelancers, that initial gift of the Holy Spirit is a mark that God’s earnest about the project, but it’s also an incentive. If we just keep working and working and working, and becoming more and more saintly, more holy and good, if we can just finish our projects of self-improvement, then one day God will reward us with a second check.

This isn’t what Paul means at all. You are not the hard-working contractor. It’s God who is at work in you. “I pray,” he writes, that God “may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation.” (1:17) He prays that “the eyes of your heart” may be “enlightened,” so that you “know” three things: the hope to which he has called you, the riches of your inheritance, and the greatness of his power. (1:18) The Holy Spirit that God has given us is not a spirit of fear or anxiety. It’s not a spirit of inspiration, so that we might go on to do great things for God.  It’s a spirit of comfort and reassurance, not about our work for God about God’s work in and for us. God wants to enlighten our hearts, so that we can see and feel the reality of that promise, so that we can truly know that the thing we hope for is real, and that it is more beautiful than we can imagine, and that God is more than strong enough to bring us there. And that blessed life of God is not a wage; it’s an inheritance. It’s not a reward that we earn by working hard. It’s the gift God has chosen to give us for being who we are.


I think that’s part of what Jesus means when he tells us, “Blessed are you who are poor… Blessed are you who are hungry… Blessed are you who weep now.” (Luke 6:20-21) It’s not that you are blessed because you are poor, or hungry, or weeping. It’s that even though the kingdom of God is not yet yours, even though you have not yet been filled, even though you are not yet laughing all the time, amidst all the pain and suffering of this world you are God’s blessed child, and you will receive the inheritance that is yours.

On this All Saints’ Sunday we remember and we pray for all the people whom we have loved and who have died. And the Holy Spirit’s work of assurance goes on. Every moment of joy or peace or prayer we feel is just a taste of what has been promised to us, of the eternal life already being lived by those who have already died. That doesn’t mean we can’t be sad. It doesn’t mean we won’t miss them every day of our lives. But it is the sometimes-unbelievable promise that they live now in the world we all pray to see, a world of peace and rest; and it’s a promise that we will one day see them again. So I pray, like Paul, that God may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, and what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us. Amen.

For All the Saints

I have a confession to make: as an opinionated and pugnacious Protestant teenager, I occasionally made fun of Catholics for what I thought of as the superstitious and vaguely-polytheistic practice of praying to the saints. (Although I never did this to my Catholic friends’ faces.) Maybe this was the result of growing up in an overwhelmingly-Catholic town and being told, when I was in third grade, that I wasn’t a real Christian because I wasn’t going to CCD; maybe I was just obnoxious. But I was certainly skeptical of all those saints. Isn’t invoking a saint just putting another barrier between your prayers and God? Does St. Anthony really have nothing better to do than help you find your keys? Isn’t declaring someone “the patron saint of _______” and then asking their prayers pretty much the same as the old Greek and Roman “gods of _______”? Saints seemed very suspect.

I was, of course, almost completely wrong.

I was wrong, first of all, because “praying to” a saint is less like “praying to” God, and more like asking a friend for prayer. The lengthy prayer known as “The Litany of the Saints” shows the difference. It begins by addressing God: “Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, have mercy upon us…” After a few more prayers, the litany of the saints itself begins:

“Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us.
Saint Michael, pray for us.
Saint Gabriel, pray for us.
Saint Raphael, pray for us…”

and on we go, through fifty-something saints, asking for the prayers of angels and archangels, apostles and evangelists, martyrs and bishops and holy people throughout the ages. Praying “to” a saint isn’t the same thing as praying to God at all; it’s asking the saint to pray with and for us, in the same way you might ask a pastor or a parent or a sibling or a friend for their prayers on your behalf. It’s a recognition and a remembrance that “to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended,” and that the saints at rest in heaven can and do continue to pray with and for us, the saints still striving here on earth.

And it’s not just the famous and the influential saints, the ones we name in our litanies and after whom we name our parish churches, whose prayers we can receive. This is the most important contribution of our Episcopal tradition to discussions of the saints: the constant reminder that in the Bible, “the saints” are not a subcommittee of super-Christians, but the whole body of God’s holy people, of all those in any time or place who have been baptized into full membership in the Church. Some of the saints are not so saintly; some are very holy indeed. None are perfect. All are blessed and beloved members of the Body of Christ.

We need one another’s prayers. And we can ask for them, from any and all of the saints surrounding us: those whose faces we see and whose voices we hear in this world, and those who have passed before us to the next. It’s not a superstition. It’s not a barrier to God. It’s just the simple human act of leaning on a friend for prayer.

All ye holy ones of God, pray for us.