Sermon — February 20, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

It’s been a week of love. On, Monday, Murray got a homemade Valentine and some cookies from a preschool friend, I baked Alice chocolate muffins, and Alice bought me not one but two varieties of pickles. (Spicy green bean and smoked okra, if you’re curious.) Then, this Sunday, we hear not one, not two, but three reflections on love in our collects and our readings.

“O Lord,” the Collect of the Day begins, “you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing: Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love…without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you.” Love is truly the greatest gift of God; whether it’s romantic love, the love between family members or friends, or the love that we make manifest in the service of our neighbors, love is one of the most powerful forces in the world.

For “if you love those who love you,” Jesus says, “what credit is that to you?” (Wait. What?) “For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same… But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return.” (Luke 6:32-35)

This is not the “Sunday after Valentine’s Day” kind of love.

“Love” is, of course, one of the core concepts of Christianity; you might even call it one of the key practices of our faith. It’s certainly been at the center of my faith. I remember reading the First Letter of John for the first time during college, at a time when I had a good friend who was struggling, and being struck by its beautiful account of love:  “Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.” (1 John 4:7–8) For whatever reason, I’d never grasped before how central “love” is to Christianity, and I can’t describe how comforting it was to hear that the love that was sustaining me as I tried to care for this friend was God’s love working in me. And I found that I was able to anchor my faith and my life in those Two Great Commandments that Jesus names from the Old Testament: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27) Wherever I went, and whatever I did, I knew that if I walked this road, loving and serving my neighbor, loving and serving God, I couldn’t go wrong.

It wasn’t for a couple of years that I realized I’d been tricked. Loving a friend in need, caring for a neighbor who needs help, these things are wonderful and important—but they are not the most difficult or the only forms of Christian love. After all, Jesus has a point. Loving those who love you is one thing; loving your enemies is another.

Because “love your enemies” doesn’t mean “have warm and fuzzy feelings about Vladimir Putin’s army massing on the borders of Ukraine.” It means desiring and working for the good for the person right here, in front of you, who has wronged you. Your enemy is not an abstract, faceless horde. It is the person you can’t stand, the one who takes up your headspace as you rehash old arguments and rehearse the ones to come. “Love your enemies,” Jesus says; “Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” (Luke 6:37) But sometimes, it can be hard to forgive. At the very same moment that I felt so comforted by the idea that my love for a friend was God’s love working in me, I was, at the very same time, utterly refusing to forgive another person, a family member who’d done something wrong. I was mulling and stewing and raging against this person, even as every day I fell more deeply in love with our loving God.

But if you ever think your family members have treated you badly, you might want to recall the story of Joseph. You may remember the details: Joseph, the youngest of twelve sons, betrayed by his brothers as a child and sold into slavery, rises with God’s help to the heights of Pharaoh’s administration in Egypt. Now there’s been a famine, and his brothers have come to Egypt for help, not realizing that he’s in charge, and while he takes his revenge, messing with them for a while, eventually his old love of his brothers rises to the surface.

“Joseph could no longer control himself,” the story goes, “before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, ‘Send everyone away from me… And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it.Joseph said to his brothers, ‘I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?’ But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence…[But he] said to his brothers, I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt… Do not be distressed” (Genesis 45:1–5) And he comforts them, and he provides for them, and he embraces them.

He loves his enemies; he blesses those who cursed him; and it is like “a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over,” put into his lap; “for the measure you give,” as Jesus says, “will be the measure you get back.” (Luke 6:38) And the most poignant moment of the story turns out not to be the moment when Joseph’s brothers bring their faith the bloody Technicolor Dream Coat, and he thinks his son has dead, but the moment when that son finally meets his brothers again and forgives.

The truth is, we all have the power to do what Joseph did. We have all been forgiven, and we can all forgive.

A few years ago I went to a preaching conference just outside Richmond, Virginia. and the keynote speaker, was a psychologist at Virginia Commonwealth University named Everett Worthington. Now, keynote speakers can be hit or miss. But this was a hit. Worthington was a psychologists, working at a public university, not a theologian or a pastor; but he was a Christian, and his work was a kind of ministry, because his academic specialty was the psychological study of forgiveness.

Now, it was a week-long conference, and I have more than one of his books still sitting on my shelf, but to a certain extent you can summarize what he had to say in a few key points.

First—and this is important—you can make the decision to forgive. Whether someone has apologized or not, whether they’re still alive or not, whether you’ve ever met them or not (imagine, here, the person who’s just cut you off in traffic!); whatever the case may be, you can choose to forgive. You don’t have a choice whether they wronged you. You don’t have a choice whether you felt angry or hurt; and you probably should have! But you do have a choice between forgiveness and unforgiveness; between ruminating and plotting revenge and forgiving and beginning to heal.

The actual emotional process of forgiveness takes much longer than this initial decision. It’s almost like painting a wall that’s been painted many times before: without replacing the feelings of anger, or pain, or frustration with this person, you add layers of empathy, or compassion, or love. You can start with a primer of empathy, remembering a time when you’ve needed forgiveness, remembering that you, too, are fallible. You can add a coat of prayers for their wellbeing, or even for their repentance and change. At the very least, in the most horrifying situations, sympathy, even pity, can do the trick; it must be so terrible to have a soul so twisted as theirs. Poor baby. But in any case the emotional work of forgiveness consists of gradually adding more layers onto that wall, until the color slowly shifts from the green and red of envy and anger to the pink and blue of love and, one day, peace.

And while there will sometimes be chips, flakes that show the layers of old color beneath, for the most part, you no longer have to look at that ugly wall every day.

I’ll be honest with you, I hate that this is the case. I wish that the Christian religion was about being right. That it was about me loving you, and you and me loving God, and all of us working together to build a world shaped by love; which is to say, a world where everyone held my opinions and lived according to my values and voted for my favorite politicians. I wish that Christ’s message of love were about how awesome I am when I am loving, and how terrible those people are who aren’t as accepting and loving as I.

But alas. Christianity is not a religion of perfection and good deeds. It’s a religion of forgiveness. And thank God for that, because I need it. “Forgive,” Jesus says, “and you will be forgiven,” (Luke 6:37) and it’s not a commandment or a burden or a judgment but an invitation and a gift. “Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” Set yourself free from the burden of age-old wounds, and if you can’t—if loving even your enemies is just a bridge too far—then remember, always, that if God extends such love and forgiveness to her enemies, then she will surely, surely, forgive you, her beloved friend.

“O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing: Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you. Grant this for the sake of your only Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”

Sermon — February 13, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

There’s been a subtle change in the way people use the word “blessed” over the last decade. Ten years ago, if I asked someone how they were and they said “blessed,” I’d assume they meant they were grateful to God for the good things God had given them, even—maybe especially—the little things. “How are you today?” you might say to a taxi driver as you got into the backseat. “Blessed,” he might reply. Life’s not perfect. I’m not rich. But I’m blessed to be here, blessed that God woke me up this morning to spend another day driving people around.

With the rise of social media, “blessed” has acquired a new sense. In the age of Facebook and Instagram and TikTok, where you can tag photos or videos with a word or phrase, “blessed” quickly became a cliché. Circa 2014, if you posted a photo of yourself suspended mid-air off the back of a yacht as you leapt into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, there was only one thing to say: #blessed. This kind of mock humility or gratitude could be especially infuriating. No no, it’s not bragging to post a photo of my incredible resort hotel room with an ocean view. It’s gratitude! It’s prayer! See: I’m blessed!

#blessed became such a cliché that as early as 2015 it had generated a harsh response from none other than Vogue magazine. “The #blessed hashtag,” writes columnist Hayley Bloomingdale, “is only acceptable when used ironically. Note: The #blessed hashtag used unironically (e.g., an image of a green juice with the caption ‘#greenjuice #cleanliving #lovemylife… #blessed #soblessed [several hashtags omitted]) is a clear indicator that you should unfollow that girl and avoid her in real life at all costs.”

Still, even today, you can find people unironically using the phrase “blessed” when they’re really showing off about how awesome their life is, and in fact—how awesome they are. It reflects a broader pattern, even a theology: there’s a certain strain of American culture and American Christianity that sees your success in attaining the pleasures of this life as a sign of God’s grace.

Jesus would be surprised to hear it.

“Blessed are you who are poor,” he famously begins, “for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you…” (Luke 6:20-22)

#blessed #soblessed

These “beatitudes,” these blessed-are-yous, are completely upside-down. Even leaving social media and the prosperity gospel aside, reasonable people wouldn’t see this as a blessed way of life. Poverty, hunger, tears; these are not the blessings for which we thank our God. Riches, fullness, laughter—these are not our woes.

It’s so difficult to wrap our heads around this inversion that people have come up with ways to try to make Jesus’ words make sense. Perhaps the most common response is to spiritualize them, and you see this already in the small differences between Luke and Matthew’s versions of these says. In Luke, Jesus tells the disciples, “Blessed are you who are poor… Blessed are you who are hungry…” (Luke 6:20-21) in Matthew, Jesus says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit… Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…” (Matt. 5:3, 6) and he adds several more: “Blessed are the merciful… Blessed are the pure in heart… Blessed are the peacemakers…” and so on. (Matt. 5:7-9) In this spiritualized version, It’s not about material poverty and wealth, hunger and fullness; it’s about spiritual hunger and spiritual poverty, yearning for God and giving up our pretenses to control. (But keeping the cash.)

Others have played with the sense of time in Jesus’ words. There’s a kind of cycle here that reminds me of the famous verse from Ecclesiastes: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” (Eccl. 3:1 ff.) “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh… [But] woe to you who are full now, for” — no matter how filling the meal — “you will be hungry.” Read this way, the Beatitudes become a commentary on the cyclicality of time, a reassurance that this too will pass—whatever this is for you right now, be it hunger or mourning or fullness or laughter. For better or for worse, all things come to an end.

To others these are both unsatisfying ideas. Luke’s gospel is, after all, the one with the most clear-eyed concern for the poor and the outcast. It’s in Luke that we find Mary’s words that God has “cast down the mighty from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly.” (1:52) It’s in Luke that Jesus, in his opening sermon at the synagogue in Nazareth, proclaims that he has come to “proclaim good news to the poor.” (4:18) And so it should come as no surprise that it’s in Luke that Jesus stands before his disciples and bluntly says, “Blessed are the poor; for yours is the kingdom of God.” And to the extent that you are poor or hungry or reviled, this is a fantastic thing. Jesus smashes the prosperity theology of the culture of #blessed-ness. If you are poor, or hungry, or mourning, it is not a sign of God’s displeasure. No, “Blessed are you,” Jesus says, “for yours is the kingdom of God.” And if—this third school of thought wants to say—if this offends you but you are rich and full and happy, then that’s not Jesus’ problem. It’s yours.

So, all of these interpretations have centuries of tradition supporting them, and I encourage you to hang onto whichever one draws you closer to God. For my part, I just want to make two observations.

First: in Matthew’s gospel, this is part of the famous “Sermon on the Mount.” In Luke, we find it in the shorter and significantly-less-famous “Sermon on the Plain.” It’s delivered not from high up on the mountain, evoking the holy Mount Sinai from which Moses delivered the Law millennia before; but face to face, for “Jesus came down… and stood on a level place… and looked up at his disciples.” (6:17, 20) Jesus came down among us, not just in a metaphorical way in the Incarnation, but in a very literal way, and walked among the rich and poor alike, not with condemnation or with legislation, but with a compassionate heart and a healing touch.

Second: this isn’t a third-person description of categories of people as good or bad. It’s a word of comfort in the second person, face to face; and, to be fair, a word of warning. It’s not “blessed are the poor…blessed are the hungry…woe to the rich.” It’s Jesus, speaking to his disciples, to us, and our ecclesiastical ancestors, and saying, “Blessed are you, who are poor. Blessed are you, who are hungry. Blessed are you, who weep.” And “woe to you, who are rich. Woe to you, who are full. Woe to you, who are laughing now.”

The reality is, we’re always both at once. We are, as the Church has always been, a mixed body. And in fact, every one of us is a mixed body. I do not know a single person who is so #blessed that they are full and laughing and rich in every part of their life. And when we see someone who we think is, when we compare our lives with someone who really does seem to be living the dream, we have to remember: it’s a front. It’s an important front, sometimes. We need to keep ourselves together somehow. We don’t actually want to answer every person who asks how we’re doing with the whole truth. But I would be shocked if a single person came up to me after this service and said, “Greg: my life is perfect. I have no pain. I have no tears. I have no hunger.” If that’s you, please tell me! I would love to know! But I’ve never seen it before in my life. Rich or full or cheerful as we may be, we are all poor, or hungry, or weeping, too.

A few years ago I went to a conference and picked up some materials from a booth being run by a group that offers “strategic missional consulting” for local churches. And you can type in the address of your church and get a detailed demographic breakdown of the local area, with Census statistics and marketing demographic breakdowns and a free 45-minute phone call where they walk you through it; and then try to sell you the full consulting package for, like, ten grand.

And after walking me through the details, the priest-consultant on the call asked me a question that came from a few decades of ministry: “Tell me: What’s hunger look like in your community?”

And I said: “Well, you know, it’s a pretty affluent area of the suburbs, but there’s actually a pretty big refugee community here, and there are a lot of elders living on fixed-incomes with pretty high property taxes, and I go to this monthly meeting of human services providers and I’ve always been surprised to hear how busy the food pantry is and…”

And he said, “No, no, no. Tell me: What’s hunger look like in your community?”

We are all sometimes full and often hungry. We are all sometimes laughing and often weeping. And I know that I’m just falling into that same trap of spiritualizing away the very real material point of this text, but we are all, however rich we may be, somehow poor; and, in this country, relative to the human condition writ large, however poor we may be, we are still relatively rich.

What’s hunger look like in our community? What’s hunger look like in this church? What’s hunger look like for you, rich or poor, hungry or full, laughing or weeping; for you, as one of those blessed children to whom Jesus has promised the kingdom of God?

For “blessed are those,” whoever they are, “who trust in the Lord,” says the prophet Jeremiah, “whose trust is in the Lord.” (Jeremiah 17:7) Amen.

Sermon — February 6, 2022

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips,
 and I live among a people of unclean lips!” (Isaiah 6:5)

Welcome to my annual report.

No, I’m just kidding. But this is a fitting set of readings for a Sunday on which we’ll vote to elect the new leadership of this parish, with two new wardens and four new Vestry members. Our readings today grapple with the overwhelming sense of responsibility that can come with a transition, in any area of life. If you’ve ever gotten a promotion at work, or taken on a leadership role in a community organization, or become a parent, you’ve probably felt that combination of dread and commitment, of “Woe is me!” and “Here I am! Send me!” Even simply to babysit for a few hours for the first time is to enter into a terrifying realm of smoke and fire and quaking thresholds; surely they’re not about to entrust me with this child? And then they do, and there you are, and it’s okay. Hopefully.

Of course, these new responsibilities come with many benefits, including some of the greatest joys and satisfactions in life: the ability to practice new skills or finally use the ones we have, to make a bigger impact on the world, to see our children as they change and grow, to eat anything we want from some random people’s fridge while we’re babysitting. It’s not so bad.

If you ever have any anxiety about new responsibilities, just read one of the gospel stories about Simon Peter. I always love these stories, because for a chief apostle, he’s such an ordinary guy. He is both a clumsy, bumbling leader, and  a model for who we all should be, and that should be a comforting thing, because—while we may never catch prodigious numbers of fish, or go to lead the Church of Christ in Rome, we probably also won’t warm ourselves by the fire outside the place where Christ is being sentenced to death and deny we’ve ever heard of the guy, so we’re not doing too badly, overall.

I want to make a few observations about leadership, responsibility, and discipleship from our Gospel reading this morning.

First: It begins with saying yes, despite our doubts. Jesus asks Simon Peter to come out into the water and cast his net, and Simon is a bit skeptical. “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing…” he says. “Yet if you say so…” He’s not sure it’s the right time or place for him to try putting out his nets, but he trusts the one who’s inviting him into it, and he says yes, and amazing things happen.

Things that are somewhat too amazing, in fact. Observation #2: our successes can be as overwhelming as our failures, if not even more so. You can imagine that Peter and his companions were a little disappointed to have caught no fish, wasting a long night’s labor. But it’s not the end of the world. Yet the success that comes when they follow Jesus’ invitation really could be the end of the world: “they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break…and they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink.” (Luke 5:6-7) Their failure is a disappointment; their success is a catastrophe. These are ordinary people, small-time businessmen; their nets and their boats are all they have. And there is always a risk in trying something new, in ascending up a new run on whatever ladder we’re climbing. It’s just as true for a church or a neighborhood. If we want to grow, in numbers or in ministry, there’s some risk. I wonder: What would it look like for our church’s boats to be so full of fish in 2022 that they began to sink?

Observation #3: the opportunities and possibilities of this new thing can and should come with a serious sense of humility. Just as Isaiah cried out, when called to speak the words of the Lord, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips!” Peter, too responds with humility. “Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man!” And yet Peter didn’t go away, “he fell down at Jesus’ knees.” (Luke 5:8) In fact this is too weak a translation. It was an ancient posture of supplication to kneel down and grab onto someone’s knees; if you were begging someone for your life, you’d grab their knees and plead with them. So Luke writes that Simon “fell toward  Jesus’ knees,” and you can imagine Jesus’ amusement at the sight. “Go away from me, Lord!” Peter cries. Um, sir. Those are my legs.

It’s a powerful symbol, though, of a spiritual truth: when we realize that we are unworthy to answer God’s call, that we can’t fulfill the vision God has for us, what we need is not to push God away, but to lean in closer; not to reject the calling, but to accept God’s gracious response to all our failings.

And we can lean in closer to one another, too. That’s observation #4: leadership is not an individual characteristic, but a communal effort. “James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon” on the fishing boats become his partners in ministry, the inner circle of a web that stretches from Jesus; to James, John, and Peter; to the Twelve; to the five hundred Paul names and more. Their leadership is a collaborative calling of which none of them is worthy on his own, and yet to which they can respond if they bear one another’s burdens along the way. And this is why we lead the church as a Vestry of which, at this point, the majority of our adults have been members. It’s why we work as teams and raise children as villages. We cannot bear the burden alone. But together, we can.

And even together, sometimes we can’t; and yet that is the greatest observation at all. Sometimes we try things and we fail. Sometimes our efforts simply aren’t good enough. Or at least we think they’re not. And Jesus responds to our inadequacies and limitations by inviting us into even greater growth, even greater responsibility. Your boat’s sinking? You’re a sinful man, not worthy of catching so many fish? “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” (Luke 5:10) And so the simple “fishermen” becomes the “fishers of men,” on the way to a lifelong pursuit of an ever-greater harvest.

So many of you bear the burden of responsibility in your lives. Maybe it’s at church, in formal or informal leadership, on the Vestry or the Building Committee, as stewardship chair or with the ECW, or in a thousand other ways. Maybe it’s at work, or at home, or in school. You may sometimes feel that you’re not good enough for the responsibility you bear. But God’s response is not to smite you for your failings. It’s not to judge you for your flaws. It’s to take you as you are, an ordinary person, good but not perfect, and to give you the strength to answer the call, so that when God asks you, “Whom shall I send?” you hear the unexpected sound of your own voice: “Here am I; send me!” (Isaiah 6:8) Amen.