Sermons

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

One of the problems faced by theologically inclined people like me is that there is always a danger of over-theologizing leading to inaction. This is not to say that theological reflection is not a worthy endeavor in itself , but rather that sometimes other methods are, perhaps counter-intuitively, more direct routes to truth.

Take that age-old problem that we call theodicy- the problem of evil. Why do bad things happen to good people? We can spend a lifetime sitting and thinking about how to explain evil and never come to any satisfying conclusion. Indeed, some have done so, and some have even lost their faith in the process.

Or we could set out to bring some comfort to the afflicted, to help the orphan and the widow and the beggar in what small ways we can and eventually come to some satisfying conclusion, not in the form of a theological axiom which one can publish and give lectures about, but in knowing that while evil exists and is hard to explain, one has nonetheless both experienced God’s grace and has done a little, Christ being our helper, to weaken its hold over the most vulnerable.

We see these two approaches in this morning’s Gospel, and at least in the instance of the man born blind, theological speculation was not Jesus’ preferred approach. Here is a man who is in tremendous need, a blind person in those days almost invariably being condemned to a life of panhandling, no other profession being open to one so disabled. And how do the disciples respond? They see the encounter as an opportunity for theological reflection. “Master,” they ask, “who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” There is, of course, in their question a false assumption, namely that misfortune is directly linked to some specific trespass. I have mentioned before from this pulpit something called a deuteronomic view of history, which is the commonly held belief that such a simple connection exists between sin and hardship (or, for that matter, between righteousness and good fortune). We need not revisit this view in great depth again today, except to say that Jesus seems to reject it, but not in the manner we might expect.

Jesus does not take the time to respond to the disciples by presenting an alternative philosophical system; he does not (at least on this occasion) unveil a new definition of weal and woe, offering details of their nature and various causes. Rather, he quickly dismisses the suggestion that somebody’s sin caused the man’s blindness, and then says that there’s work to be done, that this is an opportunity for God’s power over evil to be displayed. He moves quickly from reflection to action. “I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day;” he says, “the night cometh, when no man can work.”

Now, I’m not saying that good old theological reflection of the sort where one sits down surrounded by dusty books producing weighty texts about theodicy and other theological problems is bad or unnecessary. We’d be as blind as the Pharisees if men and women had not done and did not continue that work, and the Church would be sorely lacking if everyone adopted an unreflective sort of faith. You see, it’s teaching—doctrine—which produces and permits conviction, and without convictions our efforts are meaningless. In this sense, theological reflection has to precede action if said action is to rise to the status of Christian charity.

What I am saying, though, is that Christian discipleship is as much a matter of the heart as it is a matter of the head, and when the latter crowds out the former our theology can be unmasked as no sort of theology we’d want to publish. Imagine if the disciples had received the kind of answer they presumably wanted from Jesus: a sustained reflection on the problem of evil complete with definitions of terms, Old Testament references, and a few clever bons mots to keep their attention. It would probably be good reading; and the theological dilletante in me wishes this were what happened but the man would have remained blind, and Christ would have been seen as being more interested in theological discourse than in showing the power of God in a tangible way.

What is even more notable here is that a faith sustained by works of charity can enlarge one’s theological perspective. The problem the Pharisees had in this morning’s reading was a dogmatism resulting from what we might consider a lack of love. If the Pharisees had loved their formerly blind brother they would have rejoiced in his being cured, and they might have been able to enlarge their view of God to encompass the work of Christ. As it happened, they cast the formerly blind man out because their small faith could not allow for that which was to them theologically problematic.

We do well, I think, to heed the warning implicit in this story. We are just as capable of falling into uncharitable dogmatism as the Pharisees and we’re just as likely as the disciples to see a suffering brother or sister as a theological conversation starter rather than seeing him as one to whom we might show mercy and loving-kindness, since God has already done so. When we choose to reach out, our own understanding of God’s love is increased. We start seeing that needy person not just as a target for our charity, but as one already gifted, whether he knows it or not, with God’s charity, as one already loved by the one who is love and in whose love we also abide. That is to say, our view of God, our theology, is made more expansive and more truthful when we walk in love, and it might sometimes be increased to an even greater degree than even the best theological reflection can accomplish.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

In Ernest Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises, one of the characters, Mike Campbell, is asked how he went bankrupt. His answer: two ways- gradually and then all at once. Last week’s Gospel reading introduced us to Nicodemus, whose conversion seemed to have happened in this manner—gradually and then all at once. In last week’s Gospel he doesn’t seem to understand Jesus’ demand that one be “born again.” Later, he is shown advising the Great Sanhedrin to exercise prudence in prosecuting Jesus. He’s not yet won over to Christ, but he’s getting there. Then he reappears at the sepulchre bearing costly ointment, a symbol of his having finally come round fully.

There appears to me to be a similar trajectory with the Samaritan woman in this morning’s Gospel, albeit over a shorter time span. One can see her slowly, systematically entertaining the logical implications of what Jesus says to her and the status she’s willing to assign him creeping up as their conversation proceeds. First, he is simply “a Jew” (an ethnoreligious rival). Then she calls him “sir”, a term of respect though not warmth. Then, maybe he’s greater than Jacob. Then probably a prophet. And finally, she’s convinced he’s the Messiah.

I love this story for three reasons. First, most of you know that I studied philosophy in college, and had I not gone to seminary I almost certainly would have pursued graduate study in that field. (Thank goodness I didn’t, not only because I love being a priest, but because the world of academic philosophy is cutthroat!) The Samaritan woman’s thought process is a lot like a really good philosophical article. You entertain a proposition and work out its implications without getting lost in the weeds of outside issues and logical fallacies. She takes just such a careful, step-by-step approach.

Second, I love the story because Jesus lovingly accepts the woman while not pussyfooting around real issues. It seems to me that a lot of folks (myself included, sometimes) want Jesus to look like one or the other of two extreme pictures, neither of which captures the Jesus of scripture and history. Either we want a judgmental Jesus who condemns all the people we don’t like or we want the warm, fuzzy, hippy Jesus who doesn’t ever talk about sin or make any demands of us. But here, Jesus clearly wants to redeem the Samaritan woman and to be in relationship with her, but he also gets a little spiky about both her theology and her morality. It reminds me that while I have a close, personal relationship with my Lord and Savior, I’m also a work in progress and need to keep asking him to make me a little better day by day.

Finally, I love the story (like that of Nicodemus) because so often I’ve found for both myself and others, that the soul’s conversion can take place in that “gradually and then all at once” way. I’m talking here mostly about the continual conversion which is a lifelong process rather than the discrete “conversion from one religion or from irreligion to Christianity” though that can happen in this way, too.

I recently read The Case for Christ, which somebody gave me, and that’s how it seemed to happen for the writer of that book, Lee Strobel. That was my favorite part of the book. As a work of introductory apologetics it did a good job, I think, and while there was no new information for me, I think it would be a great text for someone just starting out as a Christian or considering Jesus but coming to that with questions. I simply hadn’t read it before because I figured it was too popular to be good, and there may have been some lurking chauvinism in my soul about evangelical apologetics, of which I’m not proud and probably need God to remove from me.

So, I was wrong; it was pretty darn good. What I really liked about it was that it was like the philosophical process of the Samaritan woman: raise an objection, entertain a proposition, follow that proposition to its logical conclusion. In this way the author gradually came to faith and then he came to faith all at once, asking Christ to forgive him and to lead him in newness of life.

But like I said, I find this “gradual/sudden” phenomenon to be even more apparent, certainly in my own life, within the process of continual conversion (what some might call “sanctification”, though for complicated reasons which would take us beyond the scope of this sermon, that term makes me a bit itchy). Growth in God’s Grace can sometimes feel like a slog through the desert and then one surprisingly suddenly finds oneself in an oasis, drinking that water which the Samaritan woman desires. One might stay there for a short time or a long time, but then (unless you die and get to go to a much better resting place) you set out on the desert road for another hike, not knowing where the next oasis is, but given more confidence than ever that you’ll eventually find yourself in it. And between oases, you might come to a little Samaritan village; they’ll ask how on earth you survived the desert journey, and you can tell them. And you might be surprised who will decide to strike out into the wilderness with you toward the next distant but not-too-distant watering hole.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

+ In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

I attended a meeting last week with several clergy and lay leaders, both Episcopalian and Lutheran, last week, and one Lutheran pastor present—at whose parish we were meeting—had to excuse himself for a bit to meet with a woman in her nineties whom he said was having “a baptismal crisis.” It turns out that she was uncertain whether or not she had actually been baptized and was worried about what this meant for her eternal destination. Fortunately for her peace of mind, the church secretary found the recording of her baptism from the nineteen thirties. Thank goodness for church records. I always find it amusing when I read again the opening chapter of Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians, as we did at Morning Prayer on Monday, where the Apostle writes the following:

I thank God that I baptized none of you, but Chrispus and Gaius; lest any should think I had baptized in my own name. And I baptized also the household of Stephanas: besides I know not whether I baptized any other.

The church in Corinth could have clearly used better record keeping and a good church secretary.

Two quick asides. First, there is always the possibility (at least in our tradition) of something called a “conditional baptism” which is intended for things like this anxious nonagenarian’s situation. When the big moment comes, you just say “if you are not already baptized, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” I have had occasion to do this. Secondly, and more importantly, I don’t personally believe that God deals in “moral luck”, so I personally reject the idea that somebody could be condemned because he or she believed himself or herself to have been baptized but hadn’t been. That said, the pastoral response in such circumstances would not be to argue that point but to try to find the baptismal record and to do a conditional baptism if called for.

Anyway, all of this raises the question of assurance. How can we be sure we are among the elect?

Nineteenth century hymn writer Fanny Crosby seemed to have worked it out. You might have heard her words before if you grew up in a different Christian tradition (it’s sadly never been in our hymnal tradition):

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

Perfect submission, perfect delight!
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;
Angels descending bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

Ms. Crosby might have worked it out, but the man who started her own flavor of Christianity, John Wesley, could not. While he taught that humans could have some level of assurance, he—who though not having Crosby’s visions of rapture and of angels descending, had felt his heart strangely warmed in a moment of conversion—could not ultimately confirm that he was certain he had been saved. Perhaps he had backslid back into his high church Anglicanism.

Puritans had similar concerns. While you’re not likely to hear it preached down at First Presbyterian (as our reformed brothers and sisters have lately tended to deëmphasize the theology of Calvin), those of the reformed tradition—Puritans and more moderate Presbyterians alike—believed that one couldn’t have perfect assurance of salvation, but only clues (signs of election) based on things like domestic tranquility and personal wealth–blessings from God which suggested to them that they were favored and thus saved. The result was the development of the Protestant work ethic (you’d work hard to evince these signs of election for your own surety and the recognition of your coreligionists) which works out well if you’re trying to establish a peaceable and productive society, but you also might get a bunch of people worried that they are sinners in the hands of an angry God.

Likewise, a case can be made that the Protestant Reformation itself began less because of Roman Catholic abuses (selling indulgences and the like, as important as that was as a tipping point) and more because good old Martin Luther was so terrified at the church’s ambivalence on the matter of salvation that he needed to find a system which provided more certainty to the believer that he or she was heaven-bound rather than damned.

Folks, I’ve got some good news for you. You don’t have to worry yourself to death; or maybe put better, the fact that you may be worried might ironically be the best evidence that you needn’t worry that you’re going to Hell. You have been been saved by Christ’s one sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction on the Cross. you have been saved in the regenerative waters of Baptism. You are being saved as you continue to receive the Grace of Christ’s Body and Blood and as good fruit is borne through your faith by the work of the Holy Spirit, even if your own participation that is simply sincerely saying “God, work through me though I am too weak to do your will.”

Now this is dangerous information to give out. It’s dangerous information, because people who are afraid of Hell can sometimes behave a lot better than those who aren’t. Geneva, when Calvin was more-or-less in charge was one of the most peaceful, prosperous, democratic places in the world.

And as much as I hate to admit it (and as I implied just a moment ago) the Puritan history of our own country’s early years had much the same effect. While our Anglican forebears on this continent were growing fat and lazy and treating trading slaves in the Southern Colonies, the Puritans up in New England were creating communities of mutual responsibility and laying the foundations for a country that could get on without a king, because they were so darned law-abiding and committed to equality (at least relative to others in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. And, contrary to popular fiction, they even killed fewer purported witches than Anglicans at the time did. Unfortunately, they were so good at obeying law and setting up the foundations of modern civil society because they were afraid that if they didn’t they’d literally go to hell. One takes the bad with the good, I guess.

The theological truth is socially dangerous, because people realize that they’re not going to burn just because they’re bad. We’re all pretty bad by nature thanks to the fall and only good by the grace of God. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Actually I do, but thank God I’m not God. I’m certainly not as loving and gracious and forgiving as God. In today’s Epistle, we get a pretty broad, generous view of salvation. We are all children of Abraham, and God has reckoned us all worthy of Salvation because of the Blood of Christ. In his conversation with Nicodemus, the only litmus test Jesus gives is that we be “born again” or “born from above” as some modern translations put it. He says we must be born of water and of the Spirit, which is to say (at least as I read it, though there are alternative interpretations) that we must both be born physically and then receive the New Birth of Baptism. Most of us (myself included) received that new birth when we’re too young to understand its nature, and we are merely passive recipients of God’s Grace. But that I think is ideal; infant baptism being normative just means that we’re being honest about the nature of the Sacrament and of Salvation, because even baptism of those of riper years, as older prayerbooks put it, is essentially a passive reception of God’s Grace, which we can only will partially and imperfectly to be recipients of.

So the good news is that we don’t have to worry. We’ve been saved. God’s promise is irrevocable. The difficult news, though, is that we’re not off the hook.

Okay, you’re not going to hell. So what? For about the last half millennium we’ve been obsessed with the question of justification and its mechanics. Who’s saved? Who’s not? How does it happen? What if I’m not saved?

I don’t mean to be flippant, but this is not really the question we who are not systematic theologians need to spend all our time and energy sorting out. God has saved us through the blood of His only Son. We didn’t deserve it. We’ll never earn it. We got it anyway. The precise mechanics of how it works are interesting, and I love being a part of those discussions as an academic exercise. I’m in a group reading through the Decades of Heinrich Bullinger, a seminal Swiss reformer, and just had a long conversation via video conference yesterday about what he had to say about justification by faith. But the God’s honest truth is that you don’t have to read Sixteenth Century theologians or even listen to Fr. John’s occasional expositions on Greek verbs to get saved.

So, as one theologian said (I think it was Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey, but I can’t track down the citation), “I was saved, I am being saved, I will be saved.” We have that assurance. The really interesting stuff is what comes after that realization. God loves you. You are baptized into Christ’s Body. You have been born anew, born from above, born again whether you knew it or not. You have a mission. Faith without works is dead, says St. James. That doesn’t mean your or my inadequacy in doing as many good works as we might will send us to Hell. So what?

The reality of being saved and not doing anything about it seems worse to me, somehow. It means you’ve been given something and haven’t done anything with it. And it’s so simple to take that gift and use it. You’ve just got to love your neighbor. As I’ve said before, that means a lot more than having warm feelings for them. You don’t even need John Wesley’s strangely warmed heart. There are people I deal with in life who don’t get the cockles of my heart very warm. But I love them. Or at least I try to do. And that’s what we’ve all got to do. To be loving. To return the gift of Grace which we’ve been given. As absolutely wretched as we may be, as much as we may spurn or resent God or take Him for granted, He still loves us, so we ought to do the same for our sisters and brothers.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.