Category: Sermons

Love your enemies

One of the three great untruths of our times, according to Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt in their book, The Coddling of the American Mind (2018), is “the untruth of us versus them” where life is seen as an endless conflict “between good people and evil people.” This is really “a pathological dualism,” as Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks points out (Not in God’s Name (2015)), which divides our humanity into “the unimpeachably good and the irredeemably bad” and in which “you are either one or the other.” This kind of conflict narrative is endlessly divisive and gnostic. You begin and end with division, with difference as hatred of the other. The awareness of difference leads to division which in turn leads to the demonization of the other. It is static and dogmatic. All there is is difference. Sadly such polarizations largely determine the tenor and character of our current social and political discourse.

While in evolutionary terms this may be explained away as an aspect of tribalism and of our tendencies to favour those in ‘our group,’ in a deeper sense it betrays all and every sense of our common humanity. It is ridiculously reductive and utterly destructive of our souls and of our life in community for the simple reason that we begin and end with our enmities, with our divisions as hardened into hatreds. In the face of such things, today’s Gospel is profoundly and wonderfully counter-culture and redemptive. It also connects to the rich traditions of wisdom in many of the great religions of the world.

Arjuna, a great warrior prince in the Hindu tradition, stands in the middle of the battlefield between two competing armies. They are all his relatives, sort of like the Maritimes. Why should I fight? he wonders. This is his ethical dilemma. How to transcend the enmities, the animosities, and the divisions that we encounter? It can’t be by denying that they exist because they are there. It has to be by some other way of thinking grounded upon a deeper understanding of our humanity. The Bhagavad Gita, reflecting the teachings of the Upanishads, offers a way of transcending such dilemmas. In that work, Arjuna is taught by Sri Krishna to follow his dharma, the law or duty of your being. A wonderful illustration of the meaning of dharma is found in the story of the Guru and the Scorpion. The scorpion falls into the river and the Guru rescues it from drowning only to be stung by the scorpion who falls again into the river only to be rescued again and again by the Guru who continues to be stung. Those looking on ask the Guru why he keeps rescuing the scorpion who keeps stinging him. He replies: it is the dharma of the scorpion to sting; it is the dharma of the human to save.

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“Nevertheless, at thy word, I will let down the net.”

In the face of the nihilisms of our contemporary culture, this is a welcoming word that signals an openness to God and to his will and way for our humanity. It should and is meant to complement the opening line of the Epistle reading, “be ye all of one mind,” but it doesn’t, at least not now in our situation as a church. We aren’t of one mind on many matters of great importance. We are a church divided, and a community and culture of souls divided. This is, sadly, nothing new. I have offered a brief statement of reflection about the current state of disarray, disaffection, and division with respect to the issue of same-sex marriage. The institutional church remains caught in the controversies of identity in our contemporary culture. We live in a divided church but prayerfully and, I hope, charitably with respect to these divisions and with an openness to the rediscovery of the principles that provide a more complete understanding of our humanity.

Today’s Gospel grounds our lives not on self-assertion but upon God’s word. Ambrose, in his commentary on this passage, indicates that in the figure of Peter especially, we have the figure of the Church. Peter is the rock upon which Christ builds the Church but only “at thy word.” It is a powerful idea and concept. There is the constant struggle to understand what it means to act in accord with God’s Word but, at the very least, it acts as a check upon human presumption. Simon Peter expresses very clearly the nature of the human predicament. “We have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing.” This complements wonderfully Mary’s statement to Jesus at the wedding feast at Cana of Galilee that “they” – we – “have no wine.” The awareness of our limitations, of our mortality, of our insufficiency, of our confusion, is a profound truth about our humanity. In our current distresses, it suggests at the very least uncertainties about ourselves and about the claims of the autonomous self. To put it in another way, what these Gospel stories indicate is that God knows us better than we know ourselves, on the one hand, and that God seeks for us to know what he seeks for us, on the other hand. “We see in a glass darkly,” not least of all about ourselves. “Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known,” as Paul says, known in Christ. Hence the significance of the nature of God’s engagement with our humanity in Jesus Christ. Divine love transforms and perfects our human loves in all our confusions and illusions but only “at thy word.”

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“Forgive and ye shall be forgiven”

Forgiveness. It is the hardest and yet one of the freest things, perhaps even one of the simplest things in our lives. It undoubtedly belongs to that most free of all things: the power of God’s praise which overcomes human pride and presumption. Forgiveness  is the power of God’s love moving in human loves. There can be no love that is not constantly love-in-renewal and there can be no renewal-in-love without forgiveness. Divine forgiveness empowers human forgiveness. Yet how hard it is for us to let go of ourselves and of the illusions of our self-image and our assumptions about others.

What makes forgiveness so hard? Quite simply, it is our hypocrisy. This is the point of the Gospel. Hypocrisy is not just our saying one thing and our doing another, not just our doing one thing and thinking another; it is about a profound presumption, an illusion about who we think we are.

We are divided within ourselves against ourselves, against one another, and against God. We are in the ‘far country’ of our self-estrangement, in ‘the region of unlikeness,’ to use Augustine’s image, separated from the truth of ourselves in God. There is our blindness and there is our judgmentalism splendidly illustrated in the Gospel. “Can the blind lead the blind? Shall they not both fall into the ditch?” That powerful image leads to the next: “Cast out first the beam that is in thine own eye, then shall thou see clearly the mote that is in thy brother’s eye.” This is the prescription for our presumption, our prejudice, meaning pre-judgment, our claim to know what we do not know. It is not just our ignorance, but our arrogance that is the problem. It is a willful blindness, a kind of refusal to see what, in fact, we have been given to see and know, for instance, in the witness of the Scriptures. But then, again, we frequently refuse to act upon what we do see and know. It is not just our knowing that is the problem. There is our capacity for willful destruction, the will to nothingness, as it were. We close our eyes to the truth before us, at once hypercritical of the minor faults of others (the mote or speck of dust) while utterly blind to the major faults and failings in ourselves (the beam or log). We do not know ourselves or others very well.

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“Cast all your care upon him, for he careth for you”

Compelling words. Compelling readings that speak directly to our souls and culture in disarray. These words and readings counter the despondency and despair that inhibits and negates life and in particular our individual lives. Why and how? Because they call us back to God in the deep meaning of God for us and for our lives. 1st Peter reminds us of the truth of God, the God who cares for us in the midst of the world’s sufferings and pains, a world in which there is much evil and darkness. That has to be faced and not just wished away. Peter here reminds us profoundly about the realities of suffering, about “[our] adversary the devil,” the very principle of evil, and that “the same afflictions are accomplished in [our] brethren that are in the world.” The Christian Faith does not mean that you are inoculated from suffering. No. It is about a way of thinking through suffering.

God cares. This is a strong statement about the goodness of God but it is a statement which we cheapen by reducing God to ourselves and our concerns, making God subject to us. This is not what Peter is saying and not what Luke is showing us in the Gospel. After all, we are bidden to “humble [our]selves” and to “be subject one to another.” Being “clothed with humility” is the condition of grace, the grace which alone exalts and lifts us up. Such things point to a kind of spiritual activity in us, a movement of the goodness which belongs to the essence of God. That God cares, theologically speaking, does not mean that God is measured by our sense of well-being, but that we are alive to his goodness, his power, and truth. God is always more and greater and beyond comprehension by definition. To know that God cares is to be open to the transcendent and transforming power of divine love, the love that is shown to us in Christ.

That is the point of the Gospel. It illustrates the strong meaning of God’s care for us in the face of the sufferings of our world and day, sufferings that arise from our evil. God’s care requires our repentance. Repentance is the strong term for our being turned back to God. We can only be turned back to God by virtue of God’s turning to us.

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“All are yours; and ye are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s”

It is one of those statements which concentrate in the most wonderful way the whole of the Christian faith. It comes from one of the lessons provided in the Octave of the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul (BCP, p. 285). Paul’s statement in 1st Corinthians 3 captures the basis of the faith, like Peter as that rock upon which the Church stands, herself a mystery of the faith. And what is that faith? It is about our being with God through God’s being with us in Jesus Christ.

We forget at our peril that the Church is herself an article of faith. “Where the gospel is preached and the sacraments are administered, there is the church,” as Luther wonderfully and profoundly puts it. That leads to questions about the relation between Word and Sacrament, to be sure, but, in profound ways, his comment counters the more sectarian and institutional views of the Church; all instrumental and calculative, all dead and deadly. The Anglican Church is not the Church Universal, to be sure; its proper and only claim is to be “an integral portion” of the Church Catholic, something spelled out more fully in the Solemn Declaration of 1893 of the Anglican Church of Canada. Nothing proclaims so clearly the real and true vocation and Anglican understanding of catholic Christianity. It is found on page viii of the Prayer Book.  You might want to make it part of your summer reading and meditation.

The conjunction of St. Peter and St. Paul brings these thoughts front and present and wonderfully so in relation to the readings for the Second Sunday after Trinity. We are reminded that “if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things.” Here we have an interesting feature of the liturgy of the Church, namely, the ways in which we are gathered into and participate in the substance of things holy and strong, things which are proclaimed and known, and yet which we can only grow into more and more, if only we will. “For all things are yours,” Paul says. Yet, we see but “in a glass darkly,” as he also reminds us. This is the necessary check to our arrogance and to the greater arrogance of our ignorance. The counter lies in John’s wonderful phrase about our hearts which condemn us in contrast to the heart of God which redeems us. All is yours in Christ; not in ourselves. To be alive to the one requires dying to the other, dying to ourselves.

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“How can these things be?”

Nicodemus’s question highlights the mystery and the wonder of this day. It is complemented by Mary’s question. “How can this be seeing I know not a man?” she asks the Angel Gabriel. We are in the midst of great mysteries, the mystery of God and the mystery of our humanity. The mystery of the Trinity and the mystery of the Incarnation are just so intimately and inescapably connected.

Trinity Sunday is the speculative Sunday of all Sundays, a day when we, quite literally, it seems, are walking on our heads. The Athanasian Creed wonderfully captures the mystical wonder of this day in the dialectical dance of affirmation and negation. To put it in other words, “This is Thou and neither is this Thou.” God is more unlike than like anything created. Think the Trinity in this way, the Creed advises. We cannot take God captive to our minds but our minds can be taken captive by God, by what we are given to see and hear; in short, to think, and in which we are privileged to participate.

“Behold a door was opened in heaven,” John the Divine tells us. Revelation is not  a window out of which or into which we might peek and peer, but a door through which we enter into the mystery of the understanding. To think God as Trinity is to praise him.

The Trinity is the central and great teaching of the Christian faith. “There is but one living and true God, everlasting, without body, parts, or passions; of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness; the Maker and Preserver of all things both visible and invisible,” as the 1st article of the Anglican Thirty-nine Article begins, articulating in a concise and clear way the classical understanding of the idea of God common to ancient philosophy and to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam alike. Today’s readings are about the making known of the mystery of God in himself and for us, a mystery which we can only think. To think it is to be born again, literally to be born upwards into what is revealed and belongs to thought. God in thinking  and loving himself thinks and loves all else; everything is gathered into the mystery of God, the mystery here revealed to us. The 1st Article goes on to express the specific Christian understanding of the mystery of God, gathering up the triplets of everlasting unity, life and truth, and of infinitepower, wisdom and goodness, into the Trinity. “And in unity of this Godhead there be three Persons, of one substance, power, and eternity, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”.

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He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance

“The old world,” Ludwig Feuerbach (1804-1872) famously claimed, “made spirit parent of matter. The new makes matter parent of spirit,” thus capturing and anticipating the materialistic spirit of Darwin and Marx that still haunts our thinking. Pentecost provides the strongest counter to such determinisms. It does so not simply through the many, many examples of the “confluences of mind and matter, and indeed, of mind precedingmatter,” as John Lukacs observes about contemporary science (At the End of An Age) but by way of a sacramental understanding whereby the things of the world are made the instruments and vehicles of spiritual grace.

It is all about the Spirit, the Holy Spirit of God. Pentecost celebrates the descent of the Holy Spirit to give birth to the Church as the spiritual community of our humanity. As such, and as we have seen throughout Eastertide and the Ascension, it is about the redemption of our humanity. It is neither reductive nor gnostic. It is not about the collapse of God into the material world (reductive) any more than it is about a flight from nature and matter as if they were somehow evil, as if spirit and matter were to be understood in some sort of fatal opposition (gnostic). Precisely through the wonderful yet elusive images of wind and fire we are opened out to the mystery of God at once with us and beyond us. Precisely through the differences of languages that so often divide and separate us we are recalled to the truth of God, to a unity of the understanding that grounds the diversities of human language and culture in what is universal, in God.

The simple point is that the human community has no unity in itself, only in God, and only in our being gathered and guided by God’s Holy Spirit given to us, as Pentecost teaches, through these signs and wonders, through these sacramental realities, we might say, which envision our unity and our understanding. For all of the ecstatic and experiential features of the Pentecost story, what stands out are the qualities of things intellectual and spiritual that redeem and sanctify every other aspect of our lives individually and corporately. As the Gospel makes clear, Pentecost shows the indwelling power of God in himself and with us. “I am in my Father,” Jesus says, “and ye in me, and I in you,” and all through the truth of God as Spirit, transcendent and beyond, yet immanent and near. It is all through the Comforter “abid[ing] with you for ever; even the Spirit of truth.” “Ye know him,” Jesus says, “for he dwelleth with you and shall be in you.” Pentecost is about the indwelling love of God in us. This happens only through teaching, only through the opening of our minds to the spiritual realities of God and of ourselves. “He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.”

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Sing ye praises with understanding

“The end of all things is at hand,” Peter tells us. What does he mean? The Ascension and the Session of Christ, his sitting at the right hand of the Father, are a kind of ending. But what kind of ending? Is it like Great Big Sea’s “It’s the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine”? Only I don’t think we feel quite so fine.

“It is finished.” Jesus’ penultimate word on the Cross is about an ending, an ending which carries over into the Resurrection and the Ascension. What is finished, ended, is all that belongs to the reconciliation between humanity and God. The overcoming of sin and death inaugurates the radical new life of the Resurrection. We only live when we live for God and for one another. The Ascension is the culmination of the Resurrection and belongs to its essential logic. The Ascension and the Session of Christ are two of the great creedal doctrines of the Christian Faith and yet are often overlooked and ignored. We forget their radical meaning and connection to Christ’s Crucifixion and Resurrection.

They are altogether about our life with God, our life as lived to and for God and one another. They are about our life as embraced in God’s will and purpose for our humanity; in short, they are about humanity’s end with God. End here signifies purpose. The Ascension is Christ’s homecoming to the Father having gone forth into the world and having returned to the Father, not empty but having accomplished God’s will for our humanity through his sacrifice. Christ’s sacrifice gathers us to God.

In the tradition of the Seven Last Words of Christ from the Cross, “it is finished” is the penultimate word. What, then, is the ultimate word, the last of the last words? It is exactly what the Ascension and the Session signify. “Father, into thy hands, I commend my spirit,” Jesus says. The first and last words of Christ are the words of the Son to the Father, words of prayer that in turn shape our prayer. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do” – what we do. “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.” What then do the Ascension and the Session mean? Quite literally, that “he’s got the whole world in his hands.” Everything is gathered back to God. “God,” as Thomas Aquinas notes in a kind of summary phrase, “is the beginning and ending of all things, especially of rational creatures.” In other words, the radical truth of the world and of human life is found in God. The Ascension and the Session celebrate the gathering of all things to God. They teach us that the world and our humanity are embraced in the knowing love of God. We live in that sense of ending, an ending that is about the purpose  and truth of our lives. We live for God and in God.

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