A Tent of Flesh

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 4 ADVENT, YEAR B

DECEMBER 20, 2020 

 

TEXT:                        2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Luke 1:26-38

 

 

            In the first lesson today, we hear of King David’s yearning to build a house for God.  This is after peace had come to Jerusalem and David’s enemies had been put under his feet.  The year was likely about 1000 B. C.

 

            But the prophet Nathan tells David that it will not be David who will build the house of God.  Is it not enough that I have placed you on the throne?  Is it not enough that I have granted peace to your people? Indeed, I will make your name great forever.

 

            David longed for something he could not have.  David, as king, was a sign and symbol of God’s presence with the people of Israel.  It was his son, Solomon, who would build the Temple in Jerusalem, after David’s reign.  It would stand there in the heart of Jerusalem– as a beacon of God’s presence – for nearly 400 years.

 

            Until 587 BC.  It was then that Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian army would lay waste to the city, level the Temple, and carry the people of Jerusalem into exile.

 

            Later, another Temple was built. It was larger and grander than the first.  King Herod, the brutal tyrant, made it one of the most spectacular structures in the world.  It, too, pointed towards God’s presence with his people.  Jesus walked in its porticos and taught in its courtyards. But it, too, would be destroyed – this time by the Romans, in AD 70.

 

            Sometime after the destruction of the first Temple, synagogues arose – as the people of God were spread throughout the known world – as a sign of the presence of God. Their ancient remnants can be scene in Israel.  Churches would come much later but would represent something similar.

 

            All that misses an important point.  It is quite plain in the gospel lesson today.  God is telling Mary that she will bear a son, and that he will be a sign of God’s presence which is much greater than all the stones and mortar that could be constructed.

 

            It is the central Christian doctrine known as the Incarnation.  The 14^th verse of the first chapter of John’s gospel tells us: “And the word became flesh and lived among us.”  A more literal translation would be that God became human and pitched tent with us.

 

            That is a truth which resonates with the ages. In the days before the first Temple – in the days the first lesson describes today – the ark of the covenant, the sacred symbol of God’s presence, was in a tent.  As the people of Israel moved about, so did the tent.  God’s presence did not depart from the people.

 

            The incarnation – God becoming flesh – is a sign to us. God is one of us, he has walked in our shoes, he has known our pains, our griefs, our temptations, our joys, our loves.  We each have been marked with imago dei – the image of God.  And God has shown us that he never departs from our side.

All Life as a Blessing

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 3 ADVENT, YEAR B

DECEMBER 13, 2020 

 

TEXT:                        1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

 

 

            The first lesson today, from Paul’s First Letter to the Thessalonians, is likely from the earliest text in the New Testament – earlier than the gospels and the other books of the Christian scriptures.

 

            This is probably Paul’s first letter that we have today.  It is believed to have been written in Corinth, some 100 miles south, in the early sixth decade, anno domini.  This is in the earliest Christian years – before the fires of the gospel had spread to many nations. Paul had planted the young church there himself, and he felt a tender love for that group of largely Gentile Christians.

 

            But Paul knew the cost of discipleship – and he knew the price the early believers were paying. The new Christians in Thessalonica had been integral parts of the pagan community there.  They had known the privileges associated with status.  They had earlier embraced the standards and values of that pagan culture. Now, they faced immense social pressures and even persecution.

 

            They were not in Kansas any more.  It was hard.

 

+ + + 

 

            Some years ago I would travel to Grand Coteau, Louisiana, and the Jesuit Spirituality Center for an annual silent retreat.  It was a time of introspection, prayer, and insight.

 

            Each retreatant was assigned a spiritual director for the retreat period – either four, eight, or 30 days. One year, my assigned director was a wise, older sister named Sister Connie.

 

            We met one-hour each day.  That hour, and the daily Eucharist, were the only times we were to speak.  The conversations with the director were times of deep probing and emerging spiritual awakening.  That was especially true one day.

 

            Sister Connie said something which went against life, as far as I was concerned. “All life is a blessing,” she said. “Everything.”

 

            I pointed out to her the truth of poverty, tragedy, injustice, oppression, illness and death.  Basically, the human condition.  I must admit I felt somewhat out of place talking about such things to an older woman who had given up everything in life to pursue her sacred call.

 

            She stuck to her view: “All life is a blessing.” I resisted.

 

+ + +

 

            Now, here we are in 2020.  Need I say more?  I saw a time change meme on Facebook that said, “I’m not turning my watch back one hour if it is going to prolong this year at all.” Who would want more of pandemic, politics, economic upheaval, and storms?

 

            Now we have Paul saying to us – from the depths of the first Christian century: “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

 

            I am humbled.  By the witness and humility of Sister Connie.  By the bravery and words of St. Paul.  

 

            I apparently do not understand the grace of God, or God’s movement in the world. I will not argue.  I will only try to accept.

A Reason for Hope

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 1 ADVENT, YEAR B

NOVEMBER 29, 2020 

 

TEXT:                        Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37

 

 

            Jurgen Moltmann was an 18-year-old, reared in a secular society, when he was drafted into the German Army in 1944.  Despite the turn the war had taken against his home country, he was expected to fight for his Fuhrer and his homeland.

 

            His days in combat did not last long.  Soon he was captured by British soldiers and placed in a prison camp in Belgium.  His world had collapsed.  On both sides of the English Channel there was utter destruction.  Coventry in England.  Dresden in Germany.  Countless other sites.  The continent was a smoking ruins.  And soon the war would fully come to Berlin.

 

            Moltmann was moved from prison camp to prison camp.  He was shown pictures of what his people had done at Buchenwald, Auschwitz, and other concentration camps.  He felt near unbearable guilt.  He wished he had died with his comrades in battle.

 

            Then he was transferred to a prison camp, across the channel, in Scotland.  There, he was given a small book containing the New Testament and Psalms.  As he helped the Scots rebuild their bombed cities, he read the book voraciously.  In the midst of the ruins, he began to see light. His eyes were opened anew.

 

            Released and returned home in 1948, he began a prolific academic career.  Out of his despair and the ruination of the continent through war, he wrote a book that is studied to this day.  The name of the book is A Theology of Hope.  In spite of all he had seen, all he had experienced, and all that had transpired around him, he saw the hope of God’s work through a lost and broken world.

 

            The prophet Isaiah lived in a similar world.  The land in which he lived – Israel – was the northern portion of what we call Israel today.  Jerusalem and the nation of Judah were to the south.  But Isaiah’s land was threatened by a nation to the north and east – Assyria.  It would not be long before Assyria would attack and conquer Isaiah’s home country.

 

            This was nearly 800 years before Jesus – much longer in time than between the arrival of Christopher Columbus in the New World and now.

 

            A prophet is not someone who gazes into a crystal ball and predicts events, a la Nostradamus.  A prophet speaks God’s truth, calls the people back to faithfulness, and points toward God’s ultimate redemption of the world.  That is precisely what Isaiah did.  He pointed toward hope, in the midst of a chaotic world.

 

            Jesus does the same today.  In the gospel lesson, he is living in a puppet state, ruled by a tyrant figure-head king, and oppressed by a Roman army that rules ruthlessly.

 

            Still, like Isaiah, like Jurgen Moltmann, Jesus points toward the coming of God’s kingdom, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

 

            What does that say to us in 2020 – in light of the pandemic, economic upheaval, political tension, and other traumas? What does it say to us in this Advent?

 

            I think you know.

Choosing Our Realm

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – LAST SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST, YEAR A

NOVEMBER 22, 2020 

 

TEXT:                        Matthew 25:31-46

 

 

A streaming series on Netflix now is all the rage.  It is “The Crown” and is now in its fourth season.  It is an intimate but speculative account of the reign of Queen Elizabeth – the 94-year-old British monarch who has ruled for almost 70 years.

 

The current season features episodes having to do with the failed marriage of Charles and Diana, and the tenure of Margaret Thatcher as Britain’s prime minister. One episode even focused on the frightful moment when an intruder to Buckingham Palace ended up seated on Queen Elizabeth’s bed as she awoke. Earlier seasons have dealt with Elizabeth’s marriage to Prince Philip, a mining disaster in Wales, and the Queen’s relationship with Winston Churchill and other prime ministers.

 

It is a fascinating but fictional “look behind the curtain” of the royal family.  The Queen and her family are seen as genuine human beings rather than the superficial figures which is the usual perception.  They are shown to be flesh and blood individuals in a family that faces the typical issues of ordinary life.  Even as they live in their gilded cage.

 

The Queen is shown to be human – compassionate, caring, but locked in a formal, stringent role that has multiple layers of protocol and tradition that bind her. Still, the royal family is seen by many as the apex of power and human existence. They live surrounded by riches, privilege, servants, and opulence.

 

It is a dramatically different picture of the king we have in today’s gospel lesson.  This is the portion of Matthew’s gospel known as the great judgement.

 

The king in this passage is not bound by protocol or tradition – just an internal passion for the welfare of the poor, the sick, the grieving, the hungry, the naked, and the homeless.  Indeed, the king’s concern is for the people described as those blessed 20 chapters earlier in the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount.

 

Those subjects who had fed him, given him drink, welcomed him as a stranger, gave him clothing when naked, and visited him when he was sick or in prison were invited to enter into the king’s realm.  Those so welcomed asked, “When did we do all these things?” The king’s response rings down through the ages: “As you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.”

 

The punitive side of the great judgement comes next.  The king banishes those who did not feed, clothe, welcome, quench, or visit him to the eternal fires prepared for the devil and his angels – in other words, separated from God.  He tells them: “As you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

 

As I mentioned last week, Jesus is in his last few days of earthly ministry.  He is getting across his most urgent teachings. It can be argued that this passage is the ethical high point of the gospels.

 

For sure, it draws a stark contrast between an earthly realm and a heavenly realm. I guess the question I would leave you with: In which realm will you choose live – the one that values attainment, comfort, status, and worldly success – with personal flaws hidden from sight – or the realm in which caring for the “least of these” is the sign of belonging?

Managing Our Treasures

HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – PROPER 28, YEAR A

NOVEMBER 15, 2020 

 

TEXT:                        Matthew 25:14-30

 

 

Jesus is in the last week of his earthly life in the Gospel lesson today.  He is in Jerusalem and has taught in the Temple.  He is beyond Palm Sunday. He sees the storm clouds on the horizon.  He knows what is in store for him.  There is special urgency in his teachings.

 

That is precisely why we take the Gospel lessons last week, this week, and next week from the 25^th Chapter of Matthew. It will be, for us, the end of Year A in the lectionary, but it represents so much more for Jesus.  He is imparting what he can in his final days.

 

Today is the Parable of the Talents.  It is a remarkably rich lesson – one that has been interpreted to a fare-thee-well over years.  In reviewing how various preachers have dealt with it over the years, I am struck by the diversity of meanings that preachers have found.

 

The essence of the lesson is this. A landowner is leaving his country, and he places his slaves in charge of his riches.  One slave is entrusted with five talents.  Another is entrusted with two.  A third is given one.  These were monetary amounts – not personal attributes, such as we describe talents today.  There is a wide variety of how talents were measured in ancient days, but a Hebrew talent translated into about 67 pounds of some valuable metal.  If the talents were made of gold – the more entrusted slave was left with more than $10 million in today’s value.  The second slave was left with $4 million.  The third slave was entrusted with $2 million.

 

You know the rest.  After a period of time, the landowner returns and wants to settle accounts. The slave entrusted with five talents makes five talents more.  The one who was given two talents makes two talents more.  But the one who was given one talent earned nothing – returning only what he had been given.

 

As you know, the landowner is pleased with the first two, but takes the sole talent away from the third slave and casts him into the outer darkness. The two enterprising slaves are rewarded.

 

Is this a lesson about entrepreneurship?  About assuming risk? About grabbing all you can?

 

No, I don’t think it is.  I think it is a message that we hear again and again from Jesus. It has to do with stewardship – not of money or belongings – but of the Kingdom of God.  As Jesus tells his detractors in the 21^st Chapter of Matthew, “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.”

 

Jesus knows that the patriarchs, Moses, the prophets had all sought to teach the way of justice, peace, and righteousness down through the millennia. And his point was repeatedly, that the message had not gotten through.  And the Kingdom of God would be given to those that produce the fruits of the Kingdom.

 

We need to be aware of the same warning.  Are we producing the fruits of the Kingdom?  Are we multiplying the talents – the spiritual treasures – with which we have been entrusted?

 

Or, out of fear or avoidance, are we hiding our treasure, planning to return only what we have been given? 

Surprised by Joy

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – PROPER 27, YEAR A

NOVEMBER 8, 2020 

 

TEXTS:                      1 Thessalonians 4:13-18; Matthew 25:1-13

 

 

“We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.”

 

These are St. Paul’s words to the young church at Thessalonica.  They are meant to reassure the new Christians there. Words of hope.

 

Bishop N. T. Wright of England, a noted biblical scholar, evangelical, and prolific author, wrote a book that was published in 2007.  It was entitled, Surprised by Joy.  It is a thorough treatment of the meaning of the resurrection and how it has largely been misinterpreted and individualized over the centuries by western theologians.

 

He contends – in a very complex book – that the resurrection of Jesus means much more than the spiritualizing of death.  He wrote that the resurrection is a foretaste of a new creation which will one-day embrace this world and all of Jesus’ followers. Jesus’ resurrection is a promise of things to come – a foretaste.

 

He seeks to disabuse us of the notion that we can build the Kingdom of God by ourselves, and the opposing notion that nothing we do matters.  He writes, however, that our efforts in this life will be enhanced and fulfilled when God’s creation reaches its ultimate conclusion – what we call the Day of the Lord.

 

That day, though, is resistant to our attempts to describe or define it.  The scriptural references are highly symbolic.  We hope – as Bishop Wright says – for something we do not understand and cannot adequately articulate.

 

Jesus’ own parable in today’s gospel lesson is symbolic.  We cannot literally say that the mysterious, promised, and longed-for moment will be like wise and foolish maidens awaiting a bridegroom.  The thrust is that, ultimately, that day will come. And we get his drift: “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

 

In the meanwhile, we can rest in hope. It is central to our proclamation and faith.