“I will lift up the cup of salvation *
and call upon the Name of the LORD.”
Psalm 116:11

By now you’re probably realizing that I’m always good for a bit of etymological trivia or a new Scrabble word, so this week, here’s a twenty-point doozy: “Utraquism.” (Unfortunately, the Official Scrabble Dictionary tells me it’s not a playable word.) It comes from the Latin word utraque in the medieval phrase sub utraque specie, meaning roughly “in both kinds.” Utraquism was the simple, radical claim by early 15^th c. reformers that communion should be distributed to laypeople not as bread only, with the wine reserved for the priest (as was the Catholic practice) but in both kinds, as both bread and wine, with laypeople and priests equal participants in the sacramental meal.

While the Catholic hierarchy was not convinced until the 20^th c., communion in both kinds became not only the practical norm but a theological cornerstone of every Protestant tradition, as it has always been in the Orthodox churches. Our Book of Common Prayer reiterates at least three times that the bread and wine are both to be offered to all those receiving communion. (If you’re ever bored during one of my sermons, flip through and see if you can find all three!)

Utraquism’s taken a blow this year. For obvious reasons, sharing wine from a common cup has been inadvisable. Like many Episcopalians, I’ve found myself leaning on the ancient Catholic argument that communion in one kind or even the simple desire to receive communion when one is unable is just as much a conduit of God’s grace. But I have to admit it’s continued to feel strange to drink the wine alone. The Eucharist isn’t a special ritual conducted by the priest on behalf of the congregation; it’s our shared and joyful feast of thanksgiving, however symbolic the “feasting” may be.

Well, things will continue to be strange for a little while longer. We’ve received permission from our bishops to share communion in both kinds again, but only if the wine is in individually pre-packaged containers. This has caused some confusion in church the last few weeks, so I thought I’d make a short video walking through what we’re doing and how to receive the wine if you’d like to, to make it easier for you to pray on Sunday morning rather than wondering what you’re supposed to do with that little plastic cup!

Sermon — June 6, 2021

The Rev. Greg Johnston

You can see why Jesus’ family might be a bit embarrassed. It’s not so complicated to be an upstanding citizen in first-century Galilee. Do a good job with your carpentry, and don’t cheat anyone on their pay. Study Torah on Saturday mornings with the rabbis, and be respectful to your parents and family. Find a nice girl, settle down, bring the kids around to Mary’s place for dinner every once in a while. If you want to live a respectable life, you might want to avoid going around saying that you’re casting out demons. People are going to think you’ve lost it.

Maybe you’re embarrassed too. Imagine that you’d brought a friend to church today. (Or perhaps you yourself are a visitor!) The pandemic is waning, restrictions are lifting, people are looking for a little hope and joy and you’ve all been raving about this church—right?—so here you come with your friend to show us off. And this is the gospel we read: Jesus is talking about Satan and fighting with his mom. This isn’t the Jesus most of us want to know. Jesus the Wise Teacher: great. Jesus the Incarnate Word of God: okay. Jesus Christ, Demon Fighter? Are you out of your mind?

Well the appearance of “Jesus Christ, Demon Fighter” is a sure sign that we’ve returned, after a long journey through the Gospel of John, to Mark, and to the early days of Jesus’ ministry. We’ll be reading Mark for most of this summer, so it’s worth saying a few words. Mark’s the shortest gospel, and in a way, the least polished. Mark’s favorite transition word is “immediately”; Jesus is baptized and the Spirit “immediately” drives him out into the wilderness. (1:12) He calls the disciples and “immediately” they follow him (1:20) and “immediately” he goes into the synagogue and begins teaching. (1:21) The gospel reads like an action movie, all quick cuts from scene to scene without much dialogue, but it’s a strange action movie. In these early chapters, Jesus has already been baptized by John and tempted in the wilderness by Satan. He’s called his disciples, and offered a few brief parables.

But mostly he’s been healing people and battling with demons. He’s cast out an unclean spirit from a man in the synagogue at Capernaum, (1:21ff) and cured Peter’s mother-in-law of a fever. (1:29) He’s cast out demons from a whole city (1:32), cured lepers of their skin disease (1:40), and forgiven the sins of a man who’s paralyzed, restoring his power to walk. (2:1ff.) Sure, he got into one argument with the Pharisees over fasting and the Sabbath (2:18ff.), but in the Gospel of Mark the demon-to-debate ratio is pretty high.

Jesus’ power over demons is such a theme of the early chapters of Mark that it hardly comes as a surprise when Mark tells us that it was the demons who first recognized who Jesus really was. “Whenever the unclean spirits saw him,” Mark writes, “they fell down before him and shouted, ‘You are the Son of God!’” (3:11) But Jesus commands them “not to make him known.” (3:12) And then goes on to call his twelve apostles, and by the time the gospel ends they’re only just beginning to understand what the demons have known all along: that Jesus is in fact the Son of God.

These kinds of healings and exorcisms weren’t everyday occurrences in the ancient world, but they weren’t unique to Jesus. When word came around of a powerful healer like this, it usually meant one of three things. First, that he was a con artist, tricking crowds into believing he had divine power for personal gain. Second, that he was a magician, actually controlling demons but by power of an even greater demon, a sorcerer purchasing power over evil spirits in a kind of Faustian bargain. Or, third, that he really was a remarkably holy man, like Elijah or Elisha before him, in whom God really is acting in the world.

But this isn’t Elijah. This isn’t Elisha. This is Jesus, the builder’s boy, come down from little Nazareth into the big city of Capernaum and way out of his depth. So the locals go up the road to his family and tell them what’s going on. Because of course, there’s a fourth option here: he’s not a con artist, or a sorcerer, or a holy man—“He’s gone out of his mind.” (3:21) “Mary. James,” you can picture them saying, “This has gone too far. Come get your boy.”

So they go, and call for him. (3:31) And the crowd tell him that they’re there, and what does Jesus have to say in response? “You’re not my mom!” So embarrassing.

And yet if you wanted to summarize what Jesus was going to do in the Gospel of Mark, you could find it right here, in the middle of today’s gospel, in one simple phrase: “binding the strong man.” (3:27)

Remember that Jesus is defending himself against the claim that he’s casting out demons by serving an even greater demon, that his power to heal is not holy but evil. Jesus replies, “How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, it cannot stand.” (3:23-24) The “kingdom” he’s talking about isn’t “the kingdom of God.” It’s the kingdom of what the Gospel of John calls “the ruler of this world.” This world is full of suffering and pain. It is under the rule of a power that is not God’s. So how could I be using Satan, Jesus asks, to fight Satan? The whole thing would come crumbling down. No, he says: “no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.” (3:27)

It’s a little strange to think of Jesus as a thief, breaking in and stealing what’s not his own. But in the context of what he’s saying about himself and these demonic powers, of course, you can probably understand what it means. Satan is the “strong man,” the “ruler of this world” (cf. John 12:31, 14:30, 16:11) under whose thumb we live. Jesus is the “stronger man,” as it were, the one who’s going to liberate us from this dictator by tying him up and rescuing us, who’s going to steal us away and keep us for his own.

As we read the Gospel of Mark this summer, we’ll hear many more stories of miracles and healings and exorcisms. There’s no Sermon on the Mount in Mark; there are no Beatitudes. There’s no Golden Rule and no Lord’s Prayer. Instead, there’s this series of low-level skirmishes in Jesus’ struggle with the evil power of the world, a campaign that will reach its climax on the cross and his final victory in the resurrection. In Mark’s gospel, I think, it’s not what Jesus says that ultimately makes the difference for our lives; it’s what he does. It’s not that we should save ourselves from evil by doing the things he teaches us to do. It’s that he has saved us from evil—he has tied up the strong man who was keeping us in thrall—and what we have to do is live accordingly.

It’s entirely possible that you don’t believe in literal demons or a literal Satan. But it’s not for nothing that the word “demons” is at an all-time high in English-language publishing. People with no belief in the supernatural or paranormal have no issue talking about “facing their demons,” and that says something. We experience our “demons,” we experience our most broken patterns of behavior and the most painful secrets of our pasts, as external beings, powerful things that have us in their grip and that we can’t control.

So maybe “Jesus Christ, Demon Fighter” is a little strange for you. But maybe you have demons you’d like to face. Perhaps the image of Jesus “binding the strong man” and overthrowing the kingdom of Satan isn’t exactly how you think about your faith. But perhaps there’s something strong that has you in its grip. Perhaps there’s some sense of shame or guilt about who you are or what you’ve done, some regret about what you never got to do, some hidden secret that you’ll never tell, some anxiety or fear about what’s coming next in your life, something that’s keeping you from being free.

Whatever it is, Jesus knows it, and Jesus has overcome it. If you need forgiveness, Jesus has already forgiven you. If you need compassion, Jesus has always loved you. If you need reassurance, Jesus has promised you an eternal life of love with him in a world that words can’t capture or describe.

Whatever it is, Jesus has already bound it up. Its power over us is already broken. It’s not always obvious what exactly this means, or in what sense it’s a real answer to our prayers and not just theological hand-waving. It will take the whole gospel—it will take our whole lives—to really come to grips with the idea that Jesus has already overthrown the forces of brokenness and death that still seem to reign in our world. And that’s okay. But as Jesus crosses stormy seas this summer and cures strange illnesses, casts out demons and proclaims the good news that God is becoming king after all, I wonder whether you might consider your own stormy seas and maladies, your own demons and distress, in the light of Christ’s compassionate love, knowing that God is doing for us better things than we can ask or imagine—For

“Though the Lord be high, he cares for the lowly…
Though [we] walk in the midst of trouble, he keep[s us] safe…
The Lord will make good his purpose for [us];
O Lord, your love endures for ever.”
(Psalm 138:7, 8, 9)

Amen.

This Sunday is the beginning of my favorite season of the church year: “Ordinary Time.” (Well, at least it’s my favorite name for a season.) The altar turns as green as the leaves on the trees. The high drama of Holy Week, Easter, and Pentecost fades into the distance. We travel with Jesus through the Gospel of Mark, and hear the ancient stories of Samuel and Saul, David and Solomon as we gather together week by week, keeping time as the names of the days on our bulletins become a bit repetitive: “The Second Sunday after Pentecost,” “The Third Sunday after Pentecost,” “The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost…”

I’m sorry to say that this is the origin of the phrase “Ordinary Time”: it’s “ordinary” as in “ordinal numbers” (2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th…), not “ordinary” as in “normal.” You’ll sometimes hear it called the “season after Pentecost,” as well, and that’s fitting in its own way. Two thousand years later, after all, we’re still living in this long, long season after that first Pentecost!

But it’s that other sense of “ordinary” that’s been a gift to me this spring. After an extraordinary year, it’s been amazing to have so many extra-ordinary moments. Life isn’t back to normal—it isn’t even back to “new normal”!—but every day, there are more and more beautiful, ordinary things happening. They’re so ordinary, in fact, that they’ve become… extra-ordinary.

Every time we travel to visit family without needing to juggle complicated testing logistics before and after, it’s an extra-ordinary moment. Every time I see preschoolers playing together outside without having to wear masks, it’s an extra-ordinary moment. Every time we get to sing a hymn—even just one or two, even with masks on!—it’s an incredible reminder of how much we have lost, and how much joy the return of a simple thing can bring.

So that’s my prayer for you, during this long season after Pentecost. May it be an ordinary time, filled with extra-ordinary moments.

“To be burned out,” writes historian Jill Lepore in an article in last week’s edition of The New Yorker,

is to be used up, like a battery so depleted that it can’t be recharged. In people, unlike batteries, it is said to produce the defining symptoms of “burnout syndrome”: exhaustion, cynicism, and loss of efficacy. Around the world, three out of five workers say they’re burned out…

Lepore traces the development of “burnout” from its origins for Vietnam War vets “burnt out” by drug addiction in Haight-Ashbury in the late ’60s to the “digital burnout” of the always-on, smartphone-connected white-collar worker. Noting that we’ve reached an age in which a majority of people describe themselves as burned out a majority of the time, she questions whether the term is really useful at all. “If burnout is universal and eternal,” she writes, “it’s meaningless. If everyone is burned out, and always has been, burnout is just . . . the hell of life.”

It’s a great article and I’d encourage you to read it. (If The New Yorker blocks you from reading it online, feel free to send me an email and I can send you the text.)

But I do wonder whether Lepore gives enough credit to the particular stresses of the pandemic, and the ways in which the last fifteen months have overwhelmed our collective and individual nervous systems. The sources of strain have been diverse but pervasive. Children and teenagers have been cut off from the most important part of their lives; namely, each other. Parents have faced an unrelenting cycle of work, homemaking, and childcare, often all at the same time, without the relief provided by schools or by grandparents. Seniors have faced an even-more-acute form of the hypervigilance, anxiety, and fear that has been coursing through all our veins.

Vaccination and the decline of the virus’s spread in our community have brought a huge relief to many of us, but there’s no emotional switch that can be flipped. “Burnout” was invented, you have to remember, not by active-duty soldiers but by veterans, by those who’d passed through the inferno of war and come out the other side alive, but not necessarily intact. And I’m convinced that much of the spiritual work of the pandemic begins now, in what is (for many of us) the aftermath, as the adrenaline fades and exhaustion deepens.

So thank God it’s Memorial Day weekend. That’s not a joke… Like many of you, I’ve always appreciated this weekend as the beginning of summer, a few brief months to rest and breathe before life begins to start back up again. Last summer felt like a wonderful relief from the horror of the spring. How much more wonderful will it be to gather this summer with family and friends, to go on long-delayed vacations, and—hey—to get to come back to church!

There’s a prayer in our Book of Common Prayer that I’ve always loved, called “For the Good Use of Leisure.” (It’s on page 825, if you have a BCP at home!)

O God, in the course of this busy life, give us times of refreshment and peace; and grant that we may so use our leisure to rebuild our bodies and renew our minds, that our spirits may be opened to the goodness of your creation; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

“To be burned out is to be used up, like a battery so depleted that it can’t be recharged.” But we are not batteries. We can be recharged! So take this “time of refreshment and peace” and rest. Rebuild your body. Renew your mind. And may all our spirits be opened to the goodness of God’s creation.