Last Chance on a Rooftop: A Sermon on Matthew 16:21-28 (Proper 17A)

A man was stranded on his roof, trying to escape the rising flood. He desperately prayed, “God save me.”

A few minutes later, a boat pulled alongside. The boatman offered the man a ride to safety. He refused, “God will save me.”

As the waters continued to rise, he prayed again, “God, please save me.”

A bit later, another boat pulled up, and this boatman offered another ride to safety. Again, he refused, “God will save me.”

The waters continued to rise, and again he prayed, “God, please save me.”

This time, a helicopter arrived, and the crew offered him a ride to safety. Again, he refused, “God will save me.”

As the waters left only the tip of the roof for him to stand on, he prayed again, “God, please save me.”

And just then, the heavens opened up, and a voice from heaven proclaimed, “I’ve already sent two boats and a helicopter! What more do you want?”

In this familiar story, the man on the roof seems a lot like us at times. We have a little faith in God, but we reject the help that God provides. We want the glowing hand to come down from heaven and smack around those who vex us. That’s especially true in our contemporary culture, which values independence over relationships.

We recite—and live out—the mantras, “I forge my own destiny, I am the master of my domain, I am the captain of my ship.” In doing so, we reject God’s help every day, since it comes in the form of the simple things that people do to help each other.

We are unable, or unwilling, to see that God is manifest in humanity, striving together for common good.

God is a great deal more subtle than that. When God wants something done, we feel the call to action. That call can be toward the start of a long journey, or it can be a single step. That call can be toward a lifelong vocation, or it can be a single action to help the person next to us.

This world is a suffering world, and there are enough small things for us to do, just as there is enough suffering for us to have our share. Jesus’ call was to a suffer for humanity, to be stripped, beaten, mocked, and finally crucified. This was the will of the Father, that Jesus suffer for the sake of humanity.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus tells his disciples exactly what he must do. He is to suffer and die, and on the third day rise again.

When Peter rebukes him, Jesus tells him that he has put his mind on human things, when it should be on the divine. Jesus’ suffering is the will of God, but Peter wants Jesus to turn away from that call. He understands only the status quo, and not the salvation that Jesus has been called to bring through his own suffering. Peter essentially tells Jesus that he should ignore the divine call and obey his own human call.

Jesus’ response seems harsh: “Get behind me, Satan!”

But Peter’s call to Jesus is the temptation of sin that has plagued humanity. It is the temptation that the human will can overcome the divine will. It is the temptation that we can do what we want, and ignoring what God wants, without consequence.

But, as with of the man on the roof, God answers our prayers in the way God wants, and not necessarily in the way we might want. Just because God doesn’t send twelve legions of angels to our defense doesn’t mean God doesn’t love us. And it doesn’t mean God won’t help us. It means God is more subtle than that, and that God acts through the everyday actions of people—just like you and me—whom God has called to help the person next to us, and to commit our lives to God.

That’s what Jesus teaches his disciples after he rebukes Peter. “Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it. But whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Through his words to Peter, Jesus reiterates his call to us, down through the ages, to remember that God comes first.

When we try to save our lives, we tend to put ourselves first, at the expense of everyone else. We keep those human things at the front of our mind, and our spirituality, our relationship with God, becomes little more than a lifestyle accessory.

We become more like the man on the roof, who thinks that God will reach down with a giant glowing hand and move him to a safe place. We become more like the man on the roof, who, though desperate, still thinks of God as being at his beck and call.

Instead, we ought to follow Jesus’ teaching, not to throw our lives away, but to give ourselves—body, mind, and soul—to the service of others.

In this way, we become less like the man on the roof, and more like those in the helicopter, who have given of themselves, and are saved from the flood.

Amen.

Re-entering the craft of writing sermons

After a couple of weeks in Iraq, I thought it time to try to start writing sermons, in an attempt to maintain the skills I learned in my preaching class last semester. I wasn’t quite successful this week, but it’s all about making progress, right? (As a very good friend recently reminded me.)

This Sunday’s gospel lectionary is from Matthew 16:13-20, in which Jesus asks his disciples who others think he is and then who the disciples think he is. The separate questions bring me to the first of three moves that I considered outlining for a sermon: What do you care what other people think? The late physicist Richard Feynman asks this question in his book of the same title. It’s been too long since I’ve read that book, so I don’t recall the circumstances behind the question; only that Feynman is serious when he asks the question.

The second move is something I’ve continually struggled with on this blog: Concentrate on the will of God, not the will of humanity. It’s probably something with which I’ll continue to struggle for the remainder of my life. This move is closely linked with the first, since caring too much about the judgment of others often causes us to change who we are. Sometimes this can be a change for the better, but in changing who we are simply to change appearances, we risk committing a grave injustice against both God and ourselves. We commit enough injustices against each other and against God already—that’s what sin is.

The third move concentrates on the statement by Jesus to Peter: The gates of Hades will not prevail. To me, this is reassurance that God is always with us. Jesus essentially says here that death (Hades) will not prevail over the church. The faith community is always there, and God is always there—not even death can change that. And the statement is a foreshadow of the idea that Jesus conquered death.

Well, that’s all for now, I think. Now, to work on a sermon for next week! Not that I expect to actually preach it, but it’s still good practice. It’s also good to dig really deeply into the scripture once in a while.

Radical faith...and taking notes during sermons!

I’ve listened to two sermons (or “messages”, as the chaplains here call them) since I’ve arrived in Iraq. And I’ve taken notes at two sermons. Since I bought it nearly three years ago, I’ve carried around a 3”x5” Moleskine book, almost wherever I’ve gone. So far, it’s about 3/4 blank.

So what’s in this book? And why do I carry it? I’ve taken a few notes, mostly little bits of insight or questions along my spiritual journey. I carry it because I never know when those insights or questions will come, or how long I can keep them in my head. That little pocket in back is useful for storing anything smaller than a 3x5 card—like a business card or a small note. It’s easier to carry when I’m in my utility uniform, since it has so many pockets. I carry it less often when I’m in civilian clothes, for no other reason than pocket space.

While I sat in my first sermon in Iraq, my hand went to the pocket where I keep the book. I remember thinking to myself, “You’re really going to take notes during a sermon?”.

Yes, I am going to take notes during a sermon. Especially when I’m in a purposeful path of exploring and examining my faith and vocation. Especially when the sermons seem to speak directly toward my exploring soul.

Last Sunday, the sermon addressed the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15:21-28. In the Matthew’s gospel, the Canaanite woman “puts the full-court press on Jesus in demonstrating her faith” (as the preacher put it). When Jesus apparently dismisses her by saying that the children’s food ought not to be given to the dogs, she persists, responding that even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table. Then Jesus praises her for the persistence of her faith and gives her what she has asked for.

Radical faith, as the preacher put it, places dependence on God. In that case, I can’t help but think: Isn’t all faith radical? Faith really is dependent on God.

Faith is much more than belief in God, though belief is a part of it. In some way, faith rejects the demands of this world. In the words of an earlier posting, faith is the breaking of the chains with which we have bound ourselves in this world and the taking on of God’s work. Again, as Jesus says, “my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Persistence of faith, as the preacher goes on, is allowing yourself to say (and mean), “Lord, not what I will, but what you will.”

The humanity of doubting

I’ve been in Iraq for just over a week now, and I managed to attend a chapel service last Sunday. The sermon, titled, “Do not doubt in the darkness what you have believed in the light”, dealt primarily with the presence (and purpose) of doubt in our lives. It was an eerily appropriate sermon for my particular circumstances.

Oddly, though I’ve flown nearly halfway around the world and into Iraq, I’ve felt less fear than in my normal life. Sure, I’ve struggled with doubt as I explore God’s call. And I’ve struggled with the loneliness that necessarily comes with this sort of social disconnect. But the irrational primal fears—those feel strangely absent.

Since I’ve arrived here (and before that, if you’ve read before), I’ve struggled with my own doubts. I’ve had doubts about God’s call to me, what shape that might take, and the timing of the call. I’ve had doubts about my job here and what I might do when I return. I’ve had doubts about my personal life.

But doubts, by themselves, aren’t bad things. As the preacher goes on to say, “To deny your doubts is to deny your humanity.” As with free will, God gave us the gift of reason. With those gifts, we struggle through this world as best we can, not always knowing exactly what to do. If we ignore our doubts, we ignore the possibility of being imperfect that comes with being human.

Doubt gives us opportunity for spiritual growth. Elijah (in last Sunday’s Old Testament reading from 1 Kings) suffered doubt, but he stepped out of the cave to see God. Peter (in the reading from Matthew’s gospel) suffered doubt when he was walking on the water with Jesus. Likewise, we all have doubts, but we have to struggle through them so that we can walk toward God.

In this way, perhaps Thomas was the greatest of the apostles. I’m sure all of them had doubt, but Thomas continually had the courage to face his doubts. He had the courage and the faith to admit his lack of understanding to Jesus. History remembers only a “Doubting Thomas”—what a compliment!

Collars (and chains) of our own making -- part 2

Now, I’m at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, waiting for my very-late-night flight out of the country. The tension has worn off, mostly replaced by exhaustion, but I found myself thinking a bit more about my previous post.

“You don’t need a collar to do my work. But you are already bound by a collar of your own making.”

What is a collar? Priests in most of the sacramental traditions (Episcopal, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, perhaps a few others) wear the well-known white collar. The collar is a reminder of servanthood—priests are servants of God. Now, we’re all servants of God (to various degrees, of course), but priests have been set apart and marked differently. The collar is a mark of the priest’s commitment and servitude to God.

Now, what does it mean that one does not need a collar to do God’s work? Again, we are all servants of God, but we all have different works to complete in this world. Many are called to do God’s work. But just as not all of that work requires a priest, not all are called to wear the collar of a priest.

If I haven’t been called to wear the collar of a priest, what have I been called to do? And why have I been called to make deeply personal sacrifices to pursue the priesthood?

As I’ve said, we all have different works to complete in this world. Perhaps the work I’ve been called to do has required me to go through some of the same preparation as would a priest. I do feel a call toward theology (and perhaps preaching as well), but is that a call from God, or is it a call based on my academic and scientific training? Clearly, I have a great deal of exploration to do.

Or is the collar I wear presently made of my own fears and doubts? In my time discerning a call to the priesthood, I’ve learned some significant things about myself, and I’ve had some great experiences, but I’ve suffered for it. What does the future hold? That’s the scary part—but that’s where faith comes in…

Collars (and chains) of our own making

So here I am, sitting in the airport, less than an hour from boarding my flight out of Dayton. I’ve been running like a headless chicken for at least the last couple of weeks, so I haven’t been able to do much for relaxation (last night’s City of Heroes session notwithstanding).

I’m remembering something that came to me one morning as I was laying in bed.

“You don’t need a collar to do my work. But you are already bound by a collar of your own making.”

It’s always interesting when God speaks. It’s sometimes painful. It’s like I’m a teenager in God’s family, trying desperately to do my own thing in my own way, when God wants what God wants. It’s like I’m the teenager who’s just been told by Dad that I “don’t need the car to go to work” (how many of us have had a similar experience).

As I roll the whole of that one around in my head, I have to think about how much I’m bound by my commitments. While I thought about it then—but never had time to blog it—it’s especially poignant now as I sit in the airport at the beginning of my journey to Iraq. I expect my deployment to be a good experience, but the fact is that, in volunteering for deployment, I’ve attached another collar (or chain) to myself.

We all have these chains, most of which we attach to ourselves—whether by action or inaction, or, as we confess in the Book of Common Prayer (BCP), “by what we have done, and by what we have left undone” (BCP, 360). As I’ve written before (or you can no doubt gather from it), we commit an injustice against God when we allow ourselves to become so bound by these chains that God doesn’t fit in any more.

I think this is what Jesus hopes we’ll realize when he tells us that his yoke is easy and his burden is light.

Well, I guess I’ll have to work some more with this later on. It looks like they’re getting ready to board my flight…