Sermons

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

At the intersection of humor and pop-psychology, much has been made of the phenomenon of “nominative determinism.” This is when a person’s name fits so perfectly with his or her profession or some other biographical detail that one wonders if that person must have been subconsciously led in a particular direction in life. There are some great, funny examples to be found online: the firefighter Les McBurney and the neuroscientist Lord Brain are some of my favorites. You’ll find famous examples, too, like the olympic sprinter Usain Bolt and (this one will only make sense to a few) Nintendo of America’s current CEO Doug Bowser. And those in my profession are well represented: there was a Fr. Chanter in Exeter,a Fr. Paternoster who served in Brechin and retired to a home on Priest Row in Wells, and–best of all–The Venerable Canon Bishop (who was neither a canon nor a bishop, but was an archdeacon in South Africa).

And then we come to Tabitha, whose Greek name was Dorcas, whom St. Peter raised from the dead as it was recorded in the Acts of the Apostles, and I would suggest it is neither coincidence nor subconscious self-determination which led to her being the subject of today’s first lesson, but rather Divine Providence. Here, we see a double nominative determinism. The first of is based entirely on my own speculation(though I’d love to see somebody else saying something similar, perhaps in a monograph which I’ll never write myself). The latter is generally accepted by the church fathers, so I’ll at least end on something not entirely idiosyncratic.

So, first, the words which Peter spoke when he resurrected Tabitha was either “Tabitha anastethi” or “Tabitha, cumi” (the former being Greek and the latter Aramaic). We can’t really know for certain. Joppa was both a center of Judaean civilization (whose everyday, domestic language was Aramaic) and a major port city on the Mediterranean (in which the language spoken in the marketplace and with strangers was Greek), and Luke (the author of Acts in addition to the Gospel which bears his name) invariably translated everything into Greek, even when the other Gospel writers maintained an Aramaic original, since he was writing to a broader, often Gentile audience. When Mark or Matthew or John have Jesus saying something in Aramaic, Luke puts it in Greek, but nobody else recorded this incident, so all we have is the Greek version, which may either be the original conversation or a translation of a conversation in Aramaic. Plus, it’s certain Peter spoke both languages fluently. Thus, we just can’t know for sure.

All that said, if the actual words were originally in Aramaic, as I suspect they may have been, the words Peter spoke would have been “Tabitha, cumi.” This is not just one letter, but one stroke of a letter away from something we know Jesus himself said when he raised the daughter of Jairus, the leader of a Galilean synagogue, from the dead in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. In Mark’s account of that story, Jesus’ words are recorded as “Talitha, cumi”–little girl, arise. The difference between the letters lamed and bet, between “Tabitha, cumi” and “Talitha, cumi” are literally one stroke, less than a line, not so much as to require one to lift one’s pen from the page even to add a “dot.” So, I strongly suspect, Peter’s point in performing this miracle is to connect it to Jesus’ own miracle in raising Jairus’ daughter, and to remind those around at the time and all of us that the church has been given the power to continue Christ’s own ministry, even as far as mediating God’s own miraculous power.

Moving from my suppositions to a point recognized by figures as important as St. John Chrysostom and the Venerable Bede, it is almost certain that Luke gives us the translation of Tabitha’s name–the Greek Dorcas–because he believed he was making a point about her character, which at least Chrysostom interprets as an instance not merely of nominative determinism in the pop psychology sense but as the outworking of Providence. The Hebrew/Aramaic Tabitha and the Greek Dorcas both mean “fallow deer” or “gaazelle,” creatures reckoned by the people of the ancient world to be noble for their fiercely energetic but deliberate activity. The preacher had this to say:

It was not without purpose that the writer informed us of the woman’s name, but to show that her character matched her name–she was active and wakeful as a gazelle. For many names are bestowed by providence, as we have often said to you. “She was full,” it says, “of good works.” Not only of alms but also of “good works,” both in general and of this good work in particular, “which Dorcas made while she was with them.” What humility! Unlike us, all of them were together, and she worked and made clothes.

So what does this have to teach us? Is Chrysostom saying (is Luke saying? is God saying?) that Tabitha’s particular profession, that of a seamstress, somehow had more inherent dignity than some other vocation. Well, I don’t think that’s precisely the point–though clothing the naked is a work of corporal mercy and working to that end (or to the producing of food or the construction of shelter or whatever) may be more useful than some other lines of work.

I think the point–and the fact that the widows were holding up what Tabitha had produced in life points to this–is that work done well and with care and love is a good in itself, not only because there is an inherent dignity in honest labor but also that doing a good job glorifies the God who gave us gifts to use in this life. And just as the widows remembered her good works, so, too, is every good thing we accomplish held in the mind of God, even unto eternity, not because they save us (works cannot do that, only Jesus can) but because they are a reflection of the loving creativity of the creator.

I have a dear friend who was and still twenty years later remains the Roman Catholic chaplain where I went to college. He remains my friend, I like to remind him, despite all of his unsuccessful attempts to convert me to his particular flavor of Christianity. Anyway, something he said all those years ago has stuck with me, and continues to affect how I approach life vocationally and avocationally.

We had been discussing Christian rock and pop music, which is sometimes theologically but more often simply aesthetically “not my cup of tea.” That’s a matter of my subjective taste, so I’m not bashing it as an entire genre. If it’s your thing, it’s all good.

That said, we were discussing some of the artistic shortcomings of some examples of the genre; my friend, by the way, had spent his undergraduate years studying Jazz performance at Berklee College of Music, so he was far more qualified than I to pass judgments on these things. His take was that the problem with a great deal of Christian art–whether it’s music or visual art or literature–was that it didn’t matter (at least as far as the market was concerned) if the piece in question had been of the highest quality so long as you, as he put it, “stamped a cross on it at the end.” That is to say, some people in the Christian community, will pay for bad art or literature or music so long as it’s explicitly Christian in nature.

His view, and subsequently mine, is that the primary obligation of the Christian artist, whatever his or her medium, is simply to make good art. It may or may not be explicitly Christian. The Cross of Christ, not feebly “stamped on” to get clout in a particular market may be embedded explicitly in the work or the work may engage more with secular themes. That doesn’t matter so much, so long as the intention is to do the very best one can with the gifts God has given one.

I think the same can be said about any honest occupation, any “honorable industry” as our prayer book puts it in its prayer for the nation, whether or not that work is creative in nature. And this includes not just gainful employment, but all virtuous endeavors on which one might spend one’s time and energy. Certainly this is the case with parenting, which I should highlight, it being Mother’s Day. So too might this apply to our social and leisure activities. Whatever we do, if done well and with love, can and should e done to the glory of God.

I went through a phase in Junior High and High School, based on something I’d read somewhere about Jesuit education, in which at least at a particular point in history students were made to write A.M.D.G. (ad majorem Dei gloriam – to the greater glory of God) at the top of every page of schoolwork, so I started doing that. I was not educated by Jesuits except much later, and then only for one course during seminary through cross-registration at a different institution, so I got all sorts of questions from teachers asking why I’d written A.M.D.G. at the top of my literature essay or history exam or whatever. I had mentioned this several years ago to Sue Ann Sandusky, by the way, and then noticed that when she later became clerk of the vestry, “A.M.D.G.” started showing up at the top of our meeting minutes. I think this gets to something we don’t consider as much as we should. Whether it’s a seventeen-year-old’s paper on social hypocrisy in Madame Bovary or minutes from a business meeting, if we do it with the intention of doing our best with the gifts God has given us and to his glory, that work will be done with more intention and care and sometimes even more love.

You see, not only has God given the church and her ministers the power and authority to continue his mission, as evinced by Peter raising Tabitha from the dead. He has also given each individual member of the body, each and every one of you, the power to glorify God. God is glorified in the simple things each and every one of us does do with his or her best efforts, whether that’s sewing a tunic like Tabitha or teaching a class or cooking a meal or coaching a team or playing on one or filling in a spreadsheet or having a conversation with somebody who just needs some encouragement. These are all opportunities for giving our best, if we would, and God will accept every effort. And what he gave Peter is not just for people like me. For the power of God is not chiefly shown by power, or authority, or even miracle, but by lowly service in his name. This is the heart of Christian service, which we might take on for ourselves, knowing that like the garments lovingly sewn by Tabitha, they will not wear out, but will prove themselves to be the robes of victory in the life of the world to come.

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

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

There are weeks when the lectionary delivers such a wealth of material that it’s hard to determine what to preach about. This is one of those weeks; we heard from Acts the moving story of Saul’s conversion on the road to Damascus, we saw in Revelation a glorious vision of the heavenly court, and in the Gospel we were drawn in to the almost painful dialogue between Peter and the risen Christ, wherein the one who denied our Lord thrice on the night he was handed over to death now thrice commits himself to loving him. That said, I want to start by looking at a peculiar detail in the Gospel.

“So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn.” John records these events with a great deal more detail than he’s often given credit for by modern biblical scholars, who tend to be biased in favor of the other three gospels (the so-called “synoptic gospels”: Matthew, Mark, and Luke). In reality, John’s Gospel may include more little, specific historical tidbits than do the other Gospels, a testament to the Gospel’s historical accuracy, and what’s more, all the detail in John tends to point not only to the historical facts of the life of Jesus, but also to theological truths which that life revealed.

So, that being said, what’s the deal with this detail John recounts in today’s Gospel- namely that the catch of fish was precisely one hundred fifty three. There have been scholars who have held that the number of fish the disciples caught that morning was merely an accident, a trivial detail which John decided to record. This, however, does not seem to be likely to me, since we’re dealing here with scripture rather than the log book of a fishing guild or something like that.

Other thinkers, both ancient and modern, have come up with rather strange theories about why 153 is significant to John’s telling of this story. Some have argued that the Tetragrammaton, the four letters (yud, heh, vav, and heh) which constitute God’s Hebrew name, appears exactly 153 times in the Book of Genesis. One wonders, if this were true what would be the theological point of alluding to it in the Gospel. It’s hard to say.

Others have used complex systems which assign numerical values to Greek letters to somehow connect the catch of fish with a biblical or historical figure, notably Mary Magdalene, but this too seems far-fetched.

It seems to me the most likely explanation was that of Saint Jerome, who noted that in some ancient fish books, including the Halieutica of the Greek poet Oppian, there were exactly 153 types of fish described. While we know now that there are many more species, the ancient Greeks would have believed these ancient books to be exhaustive; so for the ancient fisherman, it would have been common knowledge that there were exactly 153 different species of fish in the world.

Now, at the end of Jesus’ meeting with his disciples on the bank, after he had eaten with them and had his discourse with Peter, Jesus gave a simple commandment which he had given them before: “follow me.” I imagine Peter would have immediately remembered his first meeting with Jesus. He had been fishing on the Sea of Galilee then as well, and Jesus gave him the same commandment, but that time had followed it with an explanation of what it meant: “Follow me and I will make you become fishers of men.” In that instant, I suspect, the meaning of the miraculous catch would have struck Peter. The risen Christ had reminded him of his mandate and had made that mandate universal. Go catch people, all people, from every race and nation and class and station. Just as every sort of fish was in the net which did not tear, so shall the church bring in every sort of person, not crumbling from the weight but holding fast upon the foundation of Christ himself.

This is the truth which Saul who was to be Paul was ultimately to realize, his realization changing the course of human history. He himself was perhaps not the best sort of fish, more of a bottom feeder during his campaign of terror against the church, yet he too was pulled from the waters of sin and death into the boat and onto the shore. It was he who recognized the need to cast the net broadly, to bring the gentiles into the church, knowing that the net wouldn’t tear, the church wouldn’t crumble.

So too, must we, the modern disciples, cast the nets broadly with faith that the risen Lord will provide a catch as diverse, as complete, as the one hundred and fifty three fish. Christ is providing his catch today. There is not an inch of creation, there is not a single human soul, which god fails to declare his very own possession; and it is ours to make that known.

That glorious vision which John had of the heavenly court is not only a reality which God shall effect at the last. It is also a vision for what the church can be in this world as our prayers and praises join those of the angels and as we, with God’s help, bring more voices into the chorus. Even now, we join the “myriads and myriads and thousands of thousands singing with full voice” to the lamb upon his throne. We shall one day hear and join in on the song of “every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them.”

But we can do more than just wait for it. We must also work for it. We must also go fishing and we must not be fearful of what we drag in, for we know that God means to bring all people into his church and we know that the net will never tear.

+In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

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

So, who else watched Conclave this week? I admit I did, despite it seeming a bit ghoulish, but I’ll chalk it up to the fact that I figured it would be top of mind among both the talking-heads and ordinary folks in the coming days, and I wanted to be able to follow “the discourse.” My thumbnail review of the film: eh… it was alright. Some have praised it as amazing as art and social commentary, others have slammed it as an anti-Catholic or even anti-Christian hit piece. I don’t thing either extreme is right. It was just okay.

I will say, and without getting into spoilers, I’m not sure if the main character had much of an arc; whether or not he developed. This question is apposite today, because he seemed to be defined from the beginning as inhabiting this uncomfortable ground between faith and doubt. This is a reality most of us experience at some point or another in life, and it’s not to be reckoned a fatal moral flaw. That said, I’m always a bit suspicious with art and literature which begins by positing the practical epistemic and theological value of doubt (which is real) but then doesn’t take it any further, which doesn’t seem to lead to any resolution other than maintaining doubt as a virtue in itself rather than the path to a greater faith. I’ve not read the novel on which the film is based, but I have read some articles and interviews which suggest that the book might imply that the Holy Spirit has a role in the way the plot unfolds, as opposed to its film adaptation, every point of which can be empirically justified, even when it’s sometime a stretch. Anyway, that’s my one rather big criticism of the film, though it’s entirely possible I’m not giving it enough credit and am simply falling victim to my own need for clarity and certainty in a knee-jerk fashion. So, as they say “YMMV” (your mileage may vary).

I bring all this up because this week we get our annual reminder of poor “Doubting Thomas.” In previous sermons on this text I said that we miss the point of the story if we turn Thomas into a charicature – the icon of incredulity – whether we lambaste his doubting ways or affirm them as the saint par excellence of modernity and scientism. His life as a whole and his response to this Risen Lord in particular is more rich and nuanced than that straw Thomas. Unlike the protagonist of that movie, Thomas has a character arc, in which his doubt is transformed into greater faith.

So I want to focus not on the doubt itself, but what grew out of it- a stronger belief and a commitment to living out that belief as an apostle after the Resurrection. The more I consider doubt as a part of the believer’s life, the less ready I am to to say anything definitive about it. Some would reckon doubt of any sort a serious moral failing. Unequivocally denouncing all who would question their beliefs can lead to a shallow sort of faith or, even worse, to the kind of unquestioning obedience to a set of beliefs and actions which strikes me as an element of cults rather than true religion.

On the other hand, there are those who would elevate doubt itself to a kind of article of faith, as ironic as that may sound. Such an approach might hold that one must question everything to come to any kind of certainty about anything. Now, I love wrestling with hard questions, and I think new insights often depend on our being open to admitting we were mistaken about something. That said, if doubt is the primary mode of religious imagination, it seems to me we’ll never be able to find our footing. We’ll be captive, it seems, to infinite regress. What’s more, such an approach is helplessly individualistic, finding no recourse to the community of the faithful, the communion of saints of which we are a part, and, thus, more-than-a-little arrogant. No, it seems, if we’re to have any foundation at all, it must be upon convictions which have by some process and at least to some extent been inoculated against doubt. I happen to believe the deposit of faith is trustworthy because it developed by the direction of the Holy Spirit over the course of hundreds of years. Even if one doesn’t believe that, it seems to me manifestly obvious that I am not as smart as the Church Fathers, and edgelords on the internet sending tweets and making youtube videos are far less circumspect and careful in their analysis than those who wrestled with the finer points of the theology of, say, the Incarnation and the Resurrection within communities of faithful inquiry and Christian practice.

However, we shouldn’t view doubt and faith as moral antipodes, but rather as spiritual givens? Each, no doubt, abides alongside the other. Thus the father of the epileptic boy in Mark’s Gospel can without self-contradiction proclaim, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.”

The blessedness of those who have not seen and yet believe, then, does not make them morally superior to Thomas, but simply spiritually better off in the moment. It is what is done by the seed of faith, no matter how small, no matter the concomitant doubt and fear, by which we are judged. That mustard seed of faith was enough to raise Thomas from doubt and despair to a heroic life spent, even to the last, in service of the Gospel.

So must we acknowledge our misgivings, our uncertainties, our lack of perfect confidence and ask the God of all confidence to give us the strength to persevere in belief and in trust that he will not leave us comfortless. We’ll not be on the wrong path so long as we keep praying for that assurance, so long as we can honestly say, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.”

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