Sermon — October 15, 2023

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Last weekend, as I flipped through newspaper images of devastation coming out of Israel, one understated caption stuck with me. The photo showed a multi-story building in the city of Sderot that looked like it had come down in an earthquake, with two walls gone and about three-quarters of the floorspace completely collapsed, leaving only half of a shell of the original building. The caption said something like, “Israeli soldiers stand outside the police station in Sderot, damaged during fighting on Sunday.” “Damaged,” to say the least, but not yet totally destroyed.

Soon enough, images of devastation were coming from outside Israel, too, as Israeli airstrikes and shells began flattening buildings across the Gaza Strip, and the familiar cycle of violence and retaliation began again. This week, Isaiah’s words have once again become terrible reality on both sides of the border fence: “for you have made the city a heap, the fortified city a ruin.” (Isaiah 25:2)

And then on Monday, I heard the awful news, and on Tuesday, shared you with the awful news, of Evie Scoville’s death, which was sudden and unexpected, and deeply, deeply sad. And it felt, to me at least, like one of the central buildings in our community had collapsed, because someone who had been a source of comfort and strength and shelter to so many people for so long was suddenly gone.

One way or another, many of us have taken some damage this week. And if by some chance you don’t have family or friends in Israel or Palestine; or if you didn’t know Evie, or didn’t know her well, and your week has been perfectly fine; then for the purposes of this sermon I’d invite you to think about some time when it wasn’t, when you were going through some grief, or pain, when the world felt like it was collapsing around you.

Because the question I want to ask today isn’t a question about the intricacies of Israeli history or Palestinian rights, about how to process an unexpected death or any given crisis in any of our lives. What I want to ask is this: We sing every week in praise of a “God of power and might.” So what is God’s mighty, powerful response in the face of all of this?

In our first reading today, the prophet Isaiah speaks from a place of conflict and grief that’s very familiar in the world today. Isaiah is the great prophet of exile and return, a prophet who not only foresees the judgment and destruction of his people and their holy city of Jerusalem, but comforts them, after they go into exile, with the hope of a future restoration. At this point in the story that surrounds the prophecies of Isaiah, the city of Jerusalem hasn’t fallen yet, but disaster is looming. And Isaiah already looks forward, in chapters 24 and 25, to what he calls “the day of the Lord,” to some future day on which God will finally act to save the people, some day when God will finally come in and clean up this whole mess.

Isaiah’s description of that day has become a key part of the Christian understanding of our future hope. This vision is at the heart of our answer to the question, “What’s God going to do in response to all of this?” Isaiah returns to the theme of the “day of the Lord,” that long-hoped-for future day. God will gather us on the holy mountain, Isaiah says, God will gather all the peoples of the world, and we will feast on “rich food,” and “well-aged wines.” (Isaiah 25:6) But this heavenly feast is not itself the main event. The feast is a celebration of God’s greatest act: for “on this mountain,” Isaiah says, God “will destroy… the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever. Then the Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces.” (Isaiah 25:7-8)

This is God’s mighty response to the violence and injustice of this world: not the destruction of the enemies of the chosen people of God, but the destruction of the greatest enemy of all people: the destruction of death itself. This is God’s answer to the grief and pain of this life: not to make it make sense, not to try explain it away, but to wipe the tears from our eyes. This is what Christian hope is: not the naïve optimism that says that things will be just fine, that good things happen to good people in this life; but the conviction that even though things aren’t okay, that even though life isn’t fair right now, a day is surely coming when God will set things right.

Like so many things in Christian life, this is both “now” and “not yet.” It has already begun, but it is not yet complete. God has already defeated death; but the final victory is still to come. Because on that mountain where Jesus was crucified, God destroyed death. On that day when Jesus shrugged off his burial clothes, God cast off the shroud cast over all peoples. When Jesus walked out of the tomb where death sought to swallow him up, God swallowed death instead. And when we finally, one day, see God face to face, our faces will be full of a lifetime of tears, and God will wipe away the tears from our eyes. And the Resurrection that began with Jesus will be made complete in us.

But until that day comes, here we are, damaged but not destroyed, trying to live in the light of the Resurrection; trying to live as though the things that I just said were true. The promise of “the coming day of the Lord,” after all, isn’t just a pleasant dream about the future. It changes something about how we act in the present.

If “all peoples” are going to feast together one day, that means “all peoples.” It means that there are no enemies in heaven; only dinner companions. It means that no one is too far away or too different from you for you to care about in this world; you might be seated next to them in the next. It means, frustratingly enough, that the people you can’t stand being around in this life are going to spend eternity with you in the next; and you might want to start practicing how to deal with it.

And if God is going to wipe away the tears from our eyes, if God is going to destroy death, that changes something about our grief. It doesn’t take away the pain and the sadness we feel when someone dies, because they’re still gone from our lives now, even if we will one day meet them again. But the people we have loved and lost become to us like the apostle Paul, when he’s writing to the Philippians, writing to them on the assumption that he’ll see them again, and he’ll know what they’ve been doing. Their memories still speak to us, as Paul wrote to the church he’d left behind: “Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.” (Phil. 4:9) Their memories become a blessing to us, because they inspire us to be the people they would have wanted us to be, and we know that they will one day see us as we have become.

I’ve been thinking so much about Evie this week, and all the memories I have of her from the few years I’ve known her, from my first interview with the Search Committee she co-chaired to the last time I bumped into her walking Santana on Main Street. Evie was, I think, defined by love. She lived the life that Paul describes here. She rejoiced always, fighting hard for joy in times that were sometimes far from joyful. She let her gentleness be known to everyone, with a love that could be fierce when she was protecting the people she loved but was never cruel. She was and she is an inspiration to me, as a parent, as a human being, and as a priest. Her soul rests now in the hands of a loving God, and we feel her absence, and the absence of all those whom we have loved and lost, and it hurts. But we will one day see her again, and see them all again, and God will wipe away the tears from our eyes, and we will say on that day, “this is our God, for whom we have waited, so that God might save us. This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in God’s salvation.” (Isaiah 25:9) Amen.

Sermon — October 1, 2023

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

Have you heard the one about the guy who went to his pastor to complain about the Church?

(It’s a shocking premise, I know.)

So this guy walks into the pastor’s office, unannounced, and the first thing he says is, “I’ve just about had it with the church!” Okay, the pastor thinks. It’s going to be one of those conversations. She gestures, and the man sits down in a chair. “You know, we’re always talking about the Prince of Peace, but from the Crusades on down we’ve never stopped starting wars. You’re always preaching about how important it is to care for the poor, but everywhere I look there are pastors flying private jets and priests wearing fancy robes while people are sleeping out on the streets. Our church claims to be so loving and welcoming, but when I was stuck in bed for a month after my surgery nobody called me, nobody helped out, nobody cared a bit. I’m tired of it all. The Church is full of hypocrites!”

And the pastor leaned back in her chair, and considered it for a minute. And then she said, “Nah, I’m not buying it.”

The guy says to her, “What do you mean you’re not buying it?”

“Come on,” the pastor said. “The Church is not full of hypocrites. We’ve got room for plenty more.”

In his parable today, Jesus invites us to consider whether that might actually be true.

The story is simple enough. It’s hardly even a parable. A man tells his two sons to go and work in the vineyard. One says yes, but doesn’t go. One says no, but shows up anyway. Which one did what the father asked? (Matthew 21:28-31)

It’s not so much a parable as a leading question. The answer should be clear. It’s the child who said no but changed his mind who’s in the right. And you might even editorialize and say that saying yes and then blowing it off is actually worse than just saying no. You can rank the four options, best to worst: the conscientious one who say yes and goes right away comes first, followed by the flip-flopper who says no and then works anyway; the one who says no and follows through isn’t great, but the hypocrite who says yes and then disappears is clearly the worst. It’s hard to see how anyone could disagree.

But then Jesus connects the dots, and that’s where things get a little spicy. He’s in the Temple, remember, talking to the chief priests and the elders of the people, to the conscientious and the diligent, the respected and the holy. And he says to them: John the Baptist came and preached to you, and you didn’t believe him; “but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him.” (Matthew 21:32)

You, the good and the great, who claim to follow God and even to lead God’s people, ignored his chosen messenger. But the people who aren’t so great or so good—the ones who everyone else would’ve said were living in violation of God’s will—they believed John. You, the chief priests and elders, are like the hypocritical first son who said you’d work in the vineyard but refused. But they are like the second son, who strayed at first but later changed his ways.

And you could’ve heard a sandal drop, I imagine.

Jesus is like the disgruntled church member in the joke. He walks straight up to the religious leaders and accuses them of hypocrisy, right to their faces. He accuses them of saying one thing and doing another. And he may well have been right.

And it leaves me with the question: If Jesus appeared in our world, today, and took a hard look at our churches, would he say the same thing? Would he accuse us of hypocrisy in the same way that the indignant parishioner does? Is the Church really full of hypocrites? (Or is there, as the punchline goes, room for plenty more?)

Here’s the thing: Not one person in this room is perfect. I know that for a fact. And I know that, not because I’ve stayed up late into the night scrutinizing each one of you and your flaws, but because nobody in the world is perfect. Every single one of us falls short, by one measure or another, every so often; or maybe more often than that. Every single one of us is limited, by our scarcity of time or energy, money or willpower. Not one of us can ever truly love God with all our heart, and strength, and mind, and our neighbors as ourselves. We all have days where we say “yes” to doing the right thing, and then flake out; and maybe years where we say “no,” and then change our minds, or don’t.

Every one of us is like each one of those two sons, at different times. And if imperfection is what we’re measuring, then yes, the Church is full of imperfect people, and in many cases we’re here because we need a regular reminder of God’s love and grace, a regular reminder that, as our opening collect for today put it, God shows God’s “almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity.” We are imperfect, and we are loved anyway, and thank God for that.

But imperfection isn’t hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is more like imperfection plus judgment, a kind of “holier than thou” approach, a denial of your own flaws that puts you on a pedestal just high enough to make a big loud crash when you fall. Hypocrites can’t admit that they’re flawed; they certainly can’t admit that they’re hypocrites. And this is what works so well about the joke. To say that the church is not yet full of hypocrites, because there’s room for plenty more, is to disarm something of the charge. It’s not to excuse our many imperfections. It’s just to acknowledge that we know they’re there. There’s no such thing, in a sense, as a humble hypocrite.

And humility is exactly the way we should respond to the fact of human imperfection. “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit,” Paul writes to the church in Philippi, “but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.” (Phil. 2:3) He doesn’t say this to put you down. He doesn’t say you should humiliate yourself, or that other people really are better than you. To “regard” others as better than you is to make the humble assumption that you’re no better than anyone else. He draws a parallel to what Jesus chose to do: to humble himself, giving up the privileges of equality with God and taking on all the messiness of a human life. And Paul invites us to act in the same way, to empty ourselves of any claim to perfection, and to humbly recognize that other people may well be imperfect; but we’re imperfect, too.

Our task as Christians is to cultivate that “mind of Christ,” to live in the dual reality of goodness and imperfection: to hold onto the truth of being a beloved child of God, and to embrace the inevitable flaws that come with being human. This is the way of love and the way of life that Jesus lays out before us: to empty ourselves of our striving for perfection, and to recognize and admit that we are imperfect; and so is everybody else. And yet never to give up on the hope of saying “yes” and following through, of turning toward God and living as fully as God wants us to live; “for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for [God’s] good pleasure.” (Phil. 2:13)

So maybe the church isn’t full of hypocrites, exactly. It has an imperfect history and an imperfect present. It’s made of imperfect people, like you and me. But even then, the church isn’t full of imperfect people. After all… There’s room for many more.

Sermon — September 24, 2023

Michael Fenn

Lectionary Readings

I arrived home unceremoniously early from my semester abroad on March 20th, 2020. I had bought a price-gouged ticket, packed up my apartment in a day, traveled through an almost abandoned Edinburgh, and stayed in the Dublin airport for nine hours. Arriving home, it was quiet and unsettling. My sister came back from her school in New Hampshire a few days before I moved in, and my brother and his wife had been living with my mother for a few months already.

As the dust settled on COVID, we learned that of the five of us, only one was an essential worker. My mother, the MRI technician was not initially essential, my sister-in-law the medical assistant, was also not immediately essential, my sister-a theater student-was not essential, and I, a biology student doing aquaculture in a foreign country was, unsurprisingly, not essential either. My brother, the grocery store manager, was essential and was told to go back to work a few days after I arrived home. 

Each night, we ate dinner together as a family. Even though all of us were adults, and saw each other pretty much all day every single day, we all still sat at the table every night. Four of us having done very little in the way of economic work–I took to the woods everyday from sunup to sundown, my sister made a sewing studio in one odd corner of our oddly shaped house–my brother worked in a job most people do not consider glamorous in a time where most people would rather do anything else. 

My brother did not complain, at least, not about the actual work. He did not begrudge me my long days of sunning myself on rocks or splashing in creeks, nor our sister’s construction of increasingly elaborate and skilled garments (often for a large doll we had dug out from the attic). Though because he is human, he did often complain of people endangering him and his fellow essential workers. 

At the end of the day, we all still sat together and ate the same meal together. 

It was like each one of us was one of the Laborers in the Field: my hardworking brother arrived at the crack of dawn, my sister-in-law and mother sometime later in the morning, and my sister in the late afternoon, before I finally made it there just before sunset. And yet we sat down at dinner together, all receiving the same wages for our day’s labor.

~

Backing up, I like the Brother of the Prodigal Son, he is responsible, he is dependable and stays home to make sure everything is going to be alright while his brother goes and squanders his wealth and inheritance. And I like Martha, who actually cares if the house is clean and presentable, who dutifully does her chores even if she might want to listen to Jesus like her sister Mary does. I think the Laborers in the Vineyard who worked the full day have a point. I think Martha would make a much better roommate than Mary, I think the Brother of the Prodigal Son would make a much better life partner than the Prodigal Son, and I can see where the laborers who got there early in the morning are coming from. 

I suspect that a solid portion of you agree with me or at least see where I am coming from. In our culture we value things like tidiness, punctuality, letting people off the train before you get on, working to contribute to society, being dependable. People who squandered their opportunities, people who are wayward, lazy people, people who have messy houses and messy lives, who don’t work to “contribute” to society are not people we love, or people we do not love easily. We have limited sympathy for the laborers who did not work the full day.  

So, even in the lovely example with my family, my brother very well could have asked “what did you even do all day?” just as the laborers asked “why do we all get the same thing at the end of the day?” What kind of fairness is it to give equally to those who did unequal work? Is God unfair?

This parable would appear to say, very certainly, “yes” 

The issue here is actually pretty simple. In this scenario, we are bringing a human idea of fairness in front of God and coming up confused. We are bringing a human understanding of economy in front of God and coming up short. This reading abruptly de-centers our human conception of fairness and our human concept of economy. 

Jonah, one of my favorite characters in the Bible (besides Jesus!), asks God why God saved the people of Nineveh when they were wicked for so long, why he made Jonah go all the way to Nineveh when God easily could have done something else if the end result was the same: the people of Nineveh don’t get #wrecked. Jonah, like us, is bringing a human concept of fairness to God, who does not have our human concept of fairness. 

So, if God doesn’t have a human concept of fairness, then what kind of fairness does God have? 

In the beginning of the parable, Jesus doesn’t say that the kingdom of heaven is like the vineyard, but rather that the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner. Losing sight of this one detail, we can lose sight that the amount of labor done in the vineyard matters less than the call of the landowner to the laborers, and the relationship that is now present for each of the laborers. It is through this relationship that all of the laborers are sustained, not through the amount of work they do in the vineyard. With God, just as with the landowner, fairness is instead replaced by an almost overwhelming grace.

God has a kind of fairness that does not give partially, that is overflowing in abundance to all who seek it, that saves the people of Nineveh even though Jonah doesn’t agree, who also looks after Jonah even when Jonah is kind of a spiteful jerk, that will give abundant grace even to those who labor only for an hour in the vineyard. 

So, even though we like the brother of the prodigal son, and we like Martha, and we like the Laborers who get there on time; we are not always them, our loved ones are not always them, our communities are not always them. 

We leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks while our friends do them, we arrive late to racial reconciliation, we have denied the dignity of every human who could not get married before the Supreme Court said they could, we do not pick up trash in the woods even when we see it sitting there, we pass by unhoused people on the street without looking, we are short with our loved ones on long winter days, the list goes on. Like our confession says “in thought, word, and deed. By what we have done and left undone.” 

In all this mess, at the end of the day, God still gives us the full day’s wage. Even though our labors come up short, which they have done, do, and will do whether we are aware of it or not. We are just as much the laborers who do not get there on time as the ones who did, we are just as much Mary as Martha, and we are just as prodigal as un-prodigal. But God, in all goodness, does not give to us according to a human notion of fairness, but gives us full and abundant grace, and this is great news. 

I have a moral dilemma for you all, today. Purely hypothetical. Imagine that it’s January, and there’s just been a winter storm, and a snow emergency has been declared. The next day, you go to shovel out your car to get to a doctor’s appointment. You spend an hour digging it out, and then put out a cone or a chair as a space-saver, as you’re allowed to do in a snow emergency. When you come back, you find that someone’s moved it and parked in your spot. You drive around the block, and manage to find another space, while you consider what to do.

Now, you’re a good person. You don’t do what one friend of mine suggested, and smash the windshield of their car. No. The punishment must fit the crime. So you walk back to the space you’d saved, shovel in hand, and you start putting all that snow back. You shovel for about 45 minutes, carefully placing snow onto and around the car that had taken your space, and when you’re just about done, the owner returns, and says, “What are you doing???” And you tell them that you shoveled this space out, and they stole it, and so you’re just un-shoveling the space, so they get a chance to do some work. And they start yelling.

Are you in the wrong, or are they? Who thinks that they are in the wrong? Who thinks that you are? (Who thinks it’s hilarious, payback either way?)

Now consider some added context. The day before the snowstorm, you’d come home late at night, and parking spaces were few and far between. You’d managed to squeeze into a spot, but the next day when you went out to find it you realized that you’d blocked a driveway by about six inches. You find a note on your windshield: “I couldn’t get my car out this morning to go to work. I don’t have time to wait for a tow truck, so I’m taking the T. Please don’t do it again.” No damage to your car, no cash payment to get it back out of the pound. What you’d done was forgiven.

Does the prequel to the story change anything about what you did two days later, after the snow?

This very-Boston, 21^st-century tale is almost exactly the same as the story Jesus told to his disciples two thousand years ago. Jesus’ story is unsettling: it’s a story of masters and slaves, violence and punishment. But the mechanics are the same. Someone owes a debt, but he cannot pay. (Matt. 18:24-25) He begs for patience and forgiveness, and he’s shown mercy. His payment of the debt is not just delayed, but forgiven. (18:26-27) But the same man is a creditor himself. He’s owed another, smaller debt, and he intends to collect. He turns around and immediately, violently, tries to take what he’s owed. (18:28) And when he’s asked for patience, he shows none, throwing his debtor into prison until he pays it off. (18:30) The aggression and cruelty he shows while he’s trying to collect this debt are reprehensible. But the fact that he’s just been forgiven for the same thing, in fact for a hundred times the amount, makes it much worse.

Now, there are several ways to approach this story. We shouldn’t ignore the horrors of this system of enslavement that forms the backdrop. There’s a startling resemblance to modern human trafficking, in which people are offered a way into a country like the United States in exchange for a fee, and then the traffickers force them to work off this “debt,” deducting room and board, and threaten them with deportation if they refuse. And the magnitude of the “debt” this enslaved person owes the king is astounding. A denarius was about a day’s wages; 10,000 denarii would be the work of twenty-seven years. You might consider, as well, the way in which such a system creates a vicious cycle of violence. The first slave, frightened and oppressed, unable to fight back against the king, turns around and takes it out on the second one, taking the trauma he’d experienced and inflicting it on someone else.

But Jesus doesn’t really discuss either of these things. Jesus doesn’t tell this as a story about slavery, debt, or violence. Jesus tells this is a story about forgiveness. And to our modern ears, that may sound strange.

We often associate forgiveness with reconciliation, with the restoration of a right relationship between the two parties. So you’ll often hear people say that you shouldn’t forgive someone, maybe you can’t forgive someone unless they apologize, unless they repent. And this makes life hard. We ask God to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” But many of us have been wronged by people who have died, or who we don’t speak with; people who we never knew (think of the guy who cuts you off in traffic, then beeps at you) or who are convinced they’re right. (See last week’s sermon.) In these situations, there will be no apology: and yet Jesus warns us that we must forgive, if we want to be forgiven.

Or, we sometimes think that forgiveness is about our own emotional processes, that to forgive means no longer to feel pain or anger about what’s been done, or that we must have “come to terms” with what’s happened in some way. And this, too, is hard. Emotions are one of the hardest things in life to control, besides other people and the weather. You can’t choose to “just get over” something, as nice as that would often be. We all want emotional healing, but to say that being forgiven is conditional on it is a very tall order. It puts a huge burden on the one who’s been wronged: if you can’t forgive someone in your heart, you might think, then you cannot be forgiven.

But what if forgiveness wasn’t really about either of these things. What if forgiveness was about something else?

The Rev. Dr. Matthew Ichihashi Potts is a distinguished theologian: an Episcopal priest and scholar of literature and religion, he’s now the Pusey Minister in the Memorial Church and the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard University. But in his recent book Forgiveness, Matt Potts asks a surprisingly simple question: What if forgiveness is not reconciliation or emotional wholeness? What if forgiveness is simply the habit of non-retaliation? He means this in a particular sense. “Retaliation” doesn’t just mean doing something to get back at someone; it means paying someone back in kind, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. The law of retaliation sets limits on our actions by setting a exchanging revenge for payback. “A tooth for a tooth” means that if you knock out my tooth, I don’t get to chop off your hand, but I do get to knock out one of yours. The law of retaliation is the law of the space-saver: if you steal my spot, I don’t smash your windshield; but I just might make you shovel all that same snow.

And this seems to be the kind of forgiveness that Jesus is talking about. Think of the moment at which the king forgives the debt. There’s no sense of a reconciliation between the two characters. There’s no inner emotional work being done. The only forgiveness in this story is the choice not to collect the debt that the king is owed. It’s the decision not to demand what you are owed, not to make the other person pay, but to leave that snow where it is. Non-retaliation doesn’t mean inaction, or passivity. It doesn’t mean you can’t protect yourself for the future. It simply means you choose not to get payback.

“Forgiveness as non-retaliation” is much easier and much harder than the other kinds of forgiveness. It’s hard to rebuild a broken relationship and be reconciled with someone else. It’s hard to do the work of healing your own soul. It’s easy to do nothing. And yet in many cases, doing nothing is the hardest thing there is. Giving up the delicious satisfaction of payback is not always as easy as it seems.

And yet there is a lot of wisdom here. Because retaliation, as good as it may feel, can never fill that hole. A wrong was done, and it cannot be undone, even if restitution is made. Forgiveness, Potts points out, is something like grief. To forgive is to try to live in light of what’s been done, knowing that it cannot be undone. Nothing can take away the fact that I spent an hour shoveling and didn’t have a place to park. And in fact that process of payback can itself cause new pain. Because if I put all that snow back, then yes, I’ve made that other guy’s arms sore. He’s been paid back, in kind. But now my arms are twice as sore, and I still don’t have a spot to park my car.

This kind of non-retaliation isn’t the end of our response to being wronged. But it is a beginning. And, importantly, it’s this that Jesus asks for, when he asks us to forgive. Not that we feel good about what’s been done. Not that we excuse it, or allow it. Simply that we don’t turn around and repeat it, inflicting on someone else what was done to us. If we’re ever going to break that cycle of pain, if we’re ever going to forgive one another as we have been forgiven, it’s this kind of restraint that we need to practice: not seven times, or seventy-seven; more like seven thousand, seven hundred, seventy-seven.

Sermon — September 12, 2023

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“So you, mortal,” God says to Ezekiel, “I have made a sentinel for the house of Israel;
whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me.”
(Ezekiel 33:7)

I sometimes think that deep down, in our heart of hearts, most of us yearn to be Ezekiel.

Just think how satisfying it would be to be God’s appointed sentinel on earth. Think how good it would feel to go to that cousin whose political views you detest, or to that sibling who just can’t mind his own business—to that neighbor whose construction has ruined your week or to that spouse who insists on loading the dishwasher completely wrong (not my spouse)—and to say to them, “Listen: I’ve got a message for you from God, and this is it: Your ideas are nonsense. Your behavior is offensive. YOU ARE WRONG!” (And I, of course, am right.)

Now, the Lord has never descended in any of our sight in a majestic heavenly chariot, as he did to Ezekiel, wreathed in fire and flame, propelled by the beating wings of four magnificent beasts, to set us aside for a lifetime of prophetic ministry in his name, and that’s too bad. (Ezekiel 1) But we know we’re often right, all the same. And we still take it upon ourselves, from time to time, to speak in God’s name, or at least to speak as if we know what is good and true and right. Sometimes we do this with other people who agree with us, and there’s a certain satisfaction in this: it feels good to solve all the world’s problems when we’re talking to people who already agree with us about everything. But there’s a deeper, darker kind of satisfaction that comes from a fight, from a confrontation, from telling someone how wrong they are.

(If you don’t recognize this tendency in yourself, then it’s possible that you’re a better person than I am, or maybe that you’re fooling yourself. But if you think I’m wrong about people in general, try putting on a Yankees hat and walking down Main Street, and see just how much people love to tell you that you’re wrong. To say the least.)

In today’s gospel, Jesus gives some very helpful hints on the best way to go about telling one another that we’re wrong. “If another member of the church sins against you,” Jesus says, first go alone, in private, and “point out the fault.” (Matthew 18:15) If they don’t listen, do it again, but bring a friend or two. If they still think they’re right, tell the whole church, and if that doesn’t work, strike three, they’re out with the Gentiles and tax collectors. (Matthew 18:16-17) Unless they’re the Rector, in which case, they kind of have tenure and you’re going to need to get the Bishop involved.

Now, I’ve been a little irreverent so far, but this is actually really good advice: if you have an issue with somebody, then in most cases, talking to them is a much better idea than talking about them. Of course, there are cases of abuse or inappropriate behavior where reporting it to someone else is the right call, and of course, there are times when you just want to vent about something to a friend. But in general, in churches and in friendships, in marriages and in families, no problem has ever been solved by talking behind someone’s back. Jesus’ advice is good: when you have a conflict with someone, the right person to talk to about it is probably them. Gossip won’t get what you want. Embarrassing them in front of someone else is unlikely to be productive. If you have a problem with someone, go to talk to them. Fair enough.

It feels good to be Ezekiel: to be in the know and to be in the right and sometimes, yes, to tell other people that they’re wrong. Jesus’s words help us channel that in a productive way, guiding us on how best to confront one another, how best to “speak the truth in love,” as Paul says, (Ephesians 4:15) how to stand up for what’s right, for the good of the whole world.

So, there’s a nice, quick sermon for a muggy Sunday morning.

There’s just one problem.

None of us is actually the voice of God. None of us is infallibly right, all the time. As much as we might like to be, none of us is actually Ezekiel. God has not told us that we must tell our cousin (neighbor, partner, friend) that they are wrong, and we are right, or that they will die, and God will require their blood at our hand. (Ezek. 33:8) We believe that we’re right, not because of a vision from God, but because… well, if we thought we were wrong, we’d still think we were right, just in the opposite direction.

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t stand up for ourselves. It doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as right or wrong. It just means that the confidence of condemnation that we see in our reading from Ezekiel and in Jesus’ words needs to be cushioned by the compassion and the ultimate commandment of love that Paul reminds us of this morning.

There are many times in life when you really do need to confront someone else, to tell them that you think what they’re doing is wrong, because it’s harming you, or someone else, or because it’s harming them. There are other times when you really don’t. And the important question to ask yourself might be this: am I doing this out of love, or am I doing it because I know I’m right? Everyone has an uncle or a cousin who won’t stop spouting off about politics, and often the appropriate response is to roll your eyes and move on, even if you know he’s wrong. But if your uncle won’t stop talking about how bad immigration is, even with your first-generation-American daughter-in-law at the dinner table, it might be time to step in.

If you think your friend shouldn’t have bought those new shoes because they’re ugly as sin, you should probably keep your mouth shut. But if your friend shouldn’t’ve bought those shoes because their shopping addiction is bankrupting the family, that’s a whole other thing.

If you you’d just prefer that forks, knives, and spoons go in separate compartments because it’s easier to unload, then that’s between you and God. But if the dishwasher’s going to break if one more Tupperware lid melts on the bottom rack,then it’s a situation like the one God describes to Ezekiel: “If you warn the wicked, and they do not turn away, then they will die.” (Ezekiel 33:10) Or at least the dishwasher will. When someone is headed down the road to destruction, to the loss of a relationship or a life or a dishwasher, and you love them, then you need to have that difficult conversation, and the way Jesus lays this out is a pretty good way to go about it. But if you just think they’re wrong, but there’s not really any harm, then maybe consider: Why am I so bent on telling them that I’m right? As God says to Ezekiel, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that they turn and live.” (Ezek. 33:11) It’s not about being right. It’s about saving someone you love.

Because if you ever have that kind of conversation, you need to have it not only out of love but in love; not only for the right reason, but in the right way. You need to remember that you are not God, and not even a prophet from God; to remember that every one of us is as likely to be judged as to judge, to be corrected as to correct someone else; that each one of us is as likely, on any given day, to be in the wrong as we are to be wronged by someone else, and that our prayer is not “God, forgive those who sin against us,” but “God, forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”