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TEMPTATION TO DESPAIR

The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The First Sunday in Lent
February 26, 2023

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to the tempted by the devil.  He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished.  (Matthew 4:1-2) 

One of the classic stories of temptation occurs in Homer’s great epic, The Odyssey.  Odysseus, champion of the Trojan War, struggled for ten years to return home to Ithaca, and reclaim his reign as king.  At one point in his journey Odysseus had to sail past an island where strange but alluring creatures called the Sirens lived and sang out to passing ships.  Homer provides no physical description of the Sirens, but later storytellers and artists would depict them as beautiful, scantily clad women with angelic wings.  What Homer does describe is their song – a song so bewitching that no crew had ever been able to resist steering close to listen.  But it was a death trap every time.  No one could hear their song and live.  Indeed, the Sirens sat among the bones of all the sailors whom they had lured into the rocks, reefs, and crashing waves that surrounded the island. 

Homer tells us how Odysseus was able to hear the Sirens’ song and live.  As the ship bore down on the island he instructed his crew to tie him securely to the mast.  If he struggled and begged to be released they were to tie him tighter still.  Odysseus then plugged the ears of every sailor with beeswax.  The sailors bound Odysseus hand and foot to the mast and proceeded to row past the island.  On cue, the Sirens sang out their haunting tune, overwhelming Odysseus with the desire to draw near them.  He fought to be free from his fetters, but his crew, deaf to the Sirens’ song, tied him tighter and kept rowing.  Only the restraining ropes and help from his loyal companions allowed Odysseus to resist the irresistible song of the Sirens. 

Today’s reading from the Gospel of Matthew is another classic story of temptation.  Matthew tells us how Jesus was able to resist the song of Satan.  Soon after his baptism in the Jordan River, Jesus withdrew to the wilderness to endure forty days of fasting and prayer.  I believe it was his way of reenacting Israel’s forty years of wandering in the desert.  It was his way of stepping aboard Noah’s ark for forty days and forty nights at sea.  It was Jesus’ way of announcing that the great story God was telling through the Jews was coming to its climax in him.  Indeed, the long Odyssey of salvation history would find its fulfillment in Jesus.  But not if Satan could wreck the ship on the rocks and reefs.  So there in the wilderness, when Jesus was at the extremity of his physical strength, Satan sang out with his complex, manifold temptations.  To my mind these temptations, reported variously by Matthew, Mark, and Luke, have always defied any easy interpretation.  But the unmistakable conclusion is this: with no ropes to restrain him, with no beeswax to plug his ears, with no strength but the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit, Jesus was able to resist the irresistible, say no to the devil, and steer the ship through the perilous waters of temptation. 

Today is the First Sunday in Lent.  Lent is the annual opportunity for the church to step into the drama.  It is the forty days – not counting Sundays – between Ash Wednesday and Easter, when we attempt to go with Jesus and with Israel into the wilderness.  Why?  Because the Holy Spirit who empowered Jesus is our gift too.  By the power of the Spirit, God gives us the grace to be more than conquerors, even to grow into the full stature of Christ.  So think of Lent as the work of claiming a gift that is already yours.  Through a deeper discipline of self-denial and prayer, our hope and expectation is to encounter the living God. 

What do we find in the wilderness of Lent?  We find temptation.  Let me guess that Lent typically goes for you the way it has gone for me.  You want to get yourself back in fighting form so that you can fight the good fight with all your might.  You want to eat less, drink less, go to the gym more, lose a few pounds, and get close to God.  This is the year.  So on Ash Wednesday when you hear the invitation to a holy Lent, you say, “sign me up.”  You grit your teeth and start rowing.  Then, on cue, the Sirens begin singing.  The bacon cheeseburger platter calls to you.  The couch lures you into its horizontal position.  Playing on your phone is easier than going to the gym.  All those enlightening games to play and puzzles to solve!  (It’s a good thing they give you only one Wordle a day or I’d never leave the couch.)  And so it goes.  Not far into the experiment you revise your Lenten discipline and declare that you’re giving up Lent for Lent. 

Shall we give Lent one more go?  What is your greatest temptation?  I believe we all face a temptation today that is more crafty and ultimately more destructive than all the vain things we might try to do in Lent.  It seems to me that the particular Sirens’ song playing in our day tempts us toward a deep despair – despair over the state of the world and its future.  As if the pandemic weren’t enough, everything from the climate crisis, to the reality of a new cold war, to dysfunctional politics, to our polarized society tempts us to despair.  Jesus dueled with the devil in the desert, but we don’t need to go to the wilderness to be confronted by the forces of wickedness.  Evil lurks around every corner of creation. 

Have you been paying attention to the news out of Prospect Park in Brooklyn?  If so, you know that the Urban Park Rangers recently pulled a four-foot long alligator out of the lake.  Yes, the alligator was in poor condition.  She was near death and not a threat to anyone due to the cold.  She’s now being rehabilitated at the Bronx Zoo.  Her medical team has named her Godzilla, and we wish her well, we really do.  But let’s face it: Godzilla is only going to put up with so much rehabilitation.  She will never become a friendly beast, suitable to appear in our Christmas pageant.  Alligators are fierce, dangerous creatures.  You want to steer clear of them.  But you don’t expect to meet them in Brooklyn.  I ask you: who put an alligator in the green and pleasant enclosure called Prospect Park?  It’s the same question you might ask about today’s reading from Genesis (2:15-17; 3:1-7).  God created Adam and Eve to live in peace and plenteousness in the Garden of Eden.  Who put the serpent in the garden?  Jesus was able to say no to the devil, but Adam and Eve had no such ability.  The serpent tempted them, and they ate. 

Evil lurks not only in the desert, not only in the park, not only in the garden, but in the heart of humankind.  On Friday the world observed the dubious one-year anniversary of the criminal Russian invasion of Ukraine.  In the Russian President, Vladimir Putin, we have a world leader who sits atop a stockpile of nuclear weapons, and thinks it is acceptable to murder civilians, kidnap children, and destroy the infrastructure of a neighboring country.  The man is a baptized Christian.  What happened to his humanity?  Who put the serpent inside his soul?  It appears that he will tolerate only so much rehabilitation.  He has no intention of withdrawing his forces.  Instead, his plan is to wear down the Ukrainians and wait out their supporters.  He’s counting on the free world falling into despair and losing its will to say no.  Unfortunately, the only “no” he seems to understand is military force.  And so it goes. 

One-hundred years ago later this week a new rector climbed into the pulpit of Grace Church (no, we are not talking about me).  Walter Russell Bowie had been an army chaplain in France during World War One.  He had gone over there fully believing that it was the war to end all wars.  What he saw, however, was human carnage on a scale so horrible that he came home essentially a pacifist, vowing never again to speak a positive word about war.  I don’t mean to disrespect his legacy.  I am not speaking positive words about war.  But I do wonder and worry about what the proper response to the Ukrainian crisis should be from people who claim to love God, and want to reflect the goodness of God. 

I’ve been thinking this week about the parable of the Good Samaritan, even though it’s not one of our readings today.  Suppose the priest, then the Levite, then the Samaritan traveled down the road between Jerusalem and Jericho an hour earlier than the story goes (Luke 10:25-37).  Suppose what they came across was not a man who fell among thieves, lying in the road half dead.  No, what they saw was the crime taking place before their eyes.  What should they do?  What would be their ethical responsibility?  It’s hard to imagine the Good Samaritan passing by on the other side, just as it’s hard to imagine Jesus’ commending anyone’s looking away.  “Go and do likewise” is not what he’d say about the self-absorbed.  Sadly, an ongoing crime for all to see, with no end in sight, is the story of Ukraine for the past year.  The temptation to despair is great. 

And yet, again and again in the Gospels Jesus encouraged his frightened little band of disciples to take heart, to fear not.  What does it look like to trust in Jesus?  Today’s closing hymn is one of the classics of the Christian faith: “A mighty fortress is our God.”  Both the lyrics and the tune were composed by the 16^th century German monk, Martin Luther.  As you sing the hymn it will be hard to miss the references to Luther’s own struggles against the devil:

And though this world with devils filled,
should threaten to undo us;
we will not fear, for God hath willed
his truth to triumph through us;
the prince of darkness grim, we tremble not for him;
his rage we can endure, for lo! his doom is sure

 A legend about Luther tells of a tumultuous period in his life when he’d been condemned as a heretic.  He’d made many enemies who did not wish him well.  Thus he spent ten months in hiding in Wartburg Castle.  To fill the time he wrote books and translated the New Testament into German.  All the while he was beset by manifold temptations that he attributed to demonic attacks.  The story goes that one night the devil’s presence was so real for Luther that he picked up the inkwell on his desk and threw it at the apparition.  It is said that the ink stain on the wall remained visible on the wall in the room of the castle for hundreds of years. 

Is Lent merely about gritting your teeth and exercising the power of the human will to resist the wiles of the devil?  Is life in Christ simply a matter of confiding in our own strength?  If it were, the things we say today would hardly be counted as good news.  Our words would be little more than good advice, just another plan for self-improvement.  But in fact today we do speak of a means of grace and a hope of glory.  Another familiar verse in Luther’s hymn speaks of how our hope in Christ, not in ourselves:

Did we in our own strength confide,
our striving would be losing;
were not the right man on our side,
the man of God’s own choosing. 
Dost ask who that may be? 
Christ Jesus, it is he. 

 What Luther came to understand and believe and trust is what the heart of the gospel had always been: that we have the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the power of the Holy Spirit to call upon for strength in times of trouble.  The Spirit and the gifts are ours through him who sides with us. 

We all face temptations to despair.  The Sirens sing their song in this and every day.  But perhaps we can drown them out with Luther’s hymn, trusting that we confront a world filled with devils not alone, but in a living relationship with Jesus, who was tempted in every way as we are, yet did not sin.  By his grace we are able to triumph over every evil, and live no longer for ourselves alone, but for him who died for us and rose again. 

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MUSIC TO GOD’S EARS

The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 12, 2023

Jesus said, “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’ … But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgement.”  (Matthew 5:21-22) 

One month from today the main event in the evening will be not the Super Bowl, but the Academy Awards.  I have next-to no idea which films and Hollywood stars have been nominated this year.  But today’s reading from the Gospel of Matthew reminds me of a clip from the 1984 movie, Amadeus, that featured two nominations for best actor: Tom Hulce for his role as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and F. Murray Abraham for his portrayal of Antonio Salieri.  In the end, Abraham won the award.

Amadeus is historical fiction, with an emphasis on the word fiction.  It tells the story of the imagined musical rivalry between Salieri and Mozart.  The film depicts Salieri as the older, established court composer for the Holy Roman Emperor, Joseph II.  Mozart is the brilliant and brash young musician who is taking all of Europe by storm.  The Emperor has planned a reception at the palace to honor Mozart’s patron and welcome the rising star to Austrian society.  Salieri takes it upon himself to compose a short piece of music for the occasion, and we see him at his studio piano laboriously squeezing the notes out of his soul, and writing them down on parchment.  When he finishes, he gazes at a crucifix on the wall and blesses God for giving him the ability to compose. 

At the reception, Salieri presents the sheet music to the Emperor, who decides he wants to play it himself as Mozart enters the room.  The Emperor plays it badly, but still presents the sheet music to Mozart as a gift.  Mozart claims he does not need it.  The piece is already in his head.  To prove it he sits down at the piano and plays it through at twice the tempo.  Then he plays it through again, correcting on-the-spot what he thought were some of Salieri’s unsuccessful transitions in the piece, and bringing it all to a grand finish.  In short, Mozart plays circles around Salieri’s work, calling it a fun little thing that lends itself to interesting variations.  Salieri looks at Mozart with disdain, knowing that he himself will never, ever rise to such brilliance.  Therefore, he rejects God and vows to destroy the young prodigy. 

Most of today’s Scripture readings – including the one from the Gospel of Matthew – focus on the Commandments of God, or, the law of the Lord.  The Jewish people considered the law of the Lord to be a gift.  It was like the score they would need to play in order for their lives to be music to God’s ears.  Playing the Commandments well would lead to happiness, righteousness, and all good things.  Happy are they whose way is blameless, who walk in the law of the Lord.  Happy are they who observe his decrees and seek him with all their hearts, wrote the Psalmist (119:1-8), whose words we recited a moment ago.  What is more, some took the Scriptures to mean that the Commandments should be easy to follow, easy to play.  In today’s reading from Deuteronomy (30:15-20), we heard a portion of the sermon that Moses preached to the people just before they entered the Promised Land.  I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses, said Moses.  Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him.  Choose life and blessings, not death and curses.  What could possibly be easier?  What could possibly go wrong? 

As we know, plenty would go wrong when the messiness of real life met the purity of the Commandments.  What resulted was not music to God’s ears.  It was murder, and adultery, and slander, just to name a few.  Therefore, various orders of clergy and lawyers arose and stepped into the breach.  The Scribes and Pharisees would labor to interpret the Law and clarify its proper keeping.  They were to lead by example.  They were to make God’s ways so direct that everyone might keep the statues.  Unfortunately, their body of work did not simplify how to lead a blameless life.  It complicated matters no end. 

Then, into the room came Jesus.  Jesus came onto the scene as Mozart came into the palace in the movie, Amadeus.  As Jesus preached his way through the Galilean countryside, he would debate the Scribes and Pharisees.  Always it was as if he took their musical score, sat down at their piano, and played circles around the notes they had added to the Commandments.  Here was someone who saw so clearly, and lived so directly what it meant to be a person of God that it seemed as if he and God were inseparably one.  The Scribes and Pharisees looked on him with disdain, knowing that they would never, ever be able to rise to his level. 

I remember one such “Mozart moment” for me many years ago.  I was playing college baseball for the University of Sioux Falls.  No, you’ve never heard of the school, so don’t bother asking me about it.  All I can say is that we had an ambitious athletic department, and one day we were to play a double-header against the Cornhuskers of Nebraska.  Before the first game, the two teams were on either side of the field warming up our arms and stretching our legs.  I was an outfielder, so I was with three or four others catching fly balls and throwing them to the infield.  Not far away were some outfielders for Nebraska doing the same thing.  The difference was in our throwing.  Mine had a distinctive arc about them.  Theirs were as if they had loaded the ball into a rocket launcher, aimed at home plate, and fired.  Of course, to that point I’d harbored my delusions about what the future would hold.  But in that moment I realized it was the priesthood for me.  I would never, ever be able to throw the ball at the velocity they produced with the greatest of ease.  Likewise, the Scribes and Pharisees looking on Jesus.  They realized that the Commandments would never be on their hearts and fall from their lips the way they flowed through Jesus.  Therefore, eventually they would vow to destroy the young prodigy – but that’s another sermon for another day. 

What did Jesus have to say about the law of the Lord?  Many people still today think that Jesus came to be a great, moral teacher.  They think that the mission of Jesus was to impart new and novel insights into the Law.  He would show us how the Commandments are naturally common sense, and therefore inspire us to try harder to obey them.  Actually, most of the time I think we get Jesus all wrong.  Jesus did not come to be a great, moral teacher.  He came to fulfill the Law, not impose a tougher version of it on us.  What I take him to mean in today’s reading from Matthew is that the true demands of the Law exceed even the scrupulous keeping of the Scribes and Pharisees.  Your righteousness will need to exceed even theirs.  Your arm strength will need to exceed that of the heartiest Cornhusker.  Your musical ability will need to exceed Mozart’s.  Do you want to lead a blameless life?  Well, it can’t be done. 

Matthew recorded the difficult words of Jesus: “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder.’  But I say to you, if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.”  Jesus continued: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’  But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”  Imagine: murder and adultery are merely the obvious tips of two deadly icebergs.  But hidden from sight beneath the waters of life we sail across are the jagged edges of hatred and lust that will wreck the ship.  So where does Jesus’ commentary on the law of the Lord leave us?  Playing a game we cannot win?  Well, actually we are playing an unwinnable game if we look at leading a holy life as if it were a competitive sport, or a musical contest, or an Academy Award performance.  If that’s the game, we can look on Jesus and Moses and all peddlers of religion with disdain.  But the Commandments aren’t the game.  In fact, salvation is not a game or a contest at all.  What Jesus invites us to enter is God’s unfolding love story with the world.  But how do we enter it? 

Years ago at my previous church a parishioner was chair of the Cincinnati Opera.  One evening he had given Stacie and me his tickets, which were among the best in the house on the main floor of the magnificent Music Hall, downtown.  When we settled in our seats I saw that high above the stage they had recently installed an electronic screen to translate the words for people who didn’t speak Italian or know the story.  Well, I’d never been to the opera before, I don’t speak Italian, and I didn’t know the story.  But I was ready for a pure experience of high culture.  I would have nothing to do with some tawdry teleprompter.  Let the masses in the balcony follow the bouncing ball on the jumbo-tron.  As for me, I would drink in the richness of the story and the music through the sheer powers of my concentration.  I would do things the old-fashioned way.  It was about ten-seconds into the opera when I realized I would have no hope of following along without the new teleprompter.  I would have been completely lost without it. 

Likewise, Jesus offers a new way into the story of salvation.  For those who want to do things the old-fashioned way, we’ve heard today what it will take.  “Good luck,” Jesus seems to be saying.  It will make about as much sense as this: you travel three days to Jerusalem to sacrifice at the temple.  You purchase an animal to offer, but realize you have to apologize first to someone at home.  You leave the animal by the side of the altar, travel three days back, say you’re sorry, and make the long journey again to Jerusalem, expecting to find the animal where you left it.  Such are the demands of the law.  Good luck.  You’d have more luck cutting off your offending hand or tearing out your wandering eye to avoid the sin in the first place.  But Jesus offers another way: Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matthew 11).  What Jesus offers is not religion, and more of it, but a relationship with the living God through himself. 

Early on in my priesthood it was the custom of the church I served to take Communion to a local nursing home on Tuesday afternoons.  In addition to me and a volunteer from the church who would play hymns on the piano, the group usually consisted of a dozen or so ladies.  Most of them were in wheelchairs, some were lost in dementia.  The service took place in the dining room, with constant interruptions from nurses, orderlies, and the overhead speaker.  We would begin with a hymn that the participants would choose, but their choice was always the same hymn: the good old Methodist chestnut, “In the Garden.”  Of course, the wanted all the verses.  On an on it went. 

As for the singing, you could understand it in two ways.  On the one hand, by any strict measure of musical merit, it was terrible.  By the law of pure musicology, it was probably the worst singing imaginable.  On the other hand, subjecting their singing to the rigors of musical law wasn’t the point.  One could choose to hear the old song through the story of their lives, and in the context of the small community of faithful souls gathered in a difficult place.  Indeed, as they tried to sing along, I would see some light of recognition shine in the eyes of those who were otherwise disoriented and confused.  I realized that whatever sound they made was an offering to God on a par with the finest of choirs singing a perfect rendition of a glorious anthem.  Why?  Because their singing was born out of their long relationship with Jesus.  Had their way been blameless?  Had they walked in the law of the Lord?  I didn’t know.  But I could tell that they had walked with Jesus.  They had talked with Jesus, and they knew that they were his own.  I like to think that the songs that arose from a nursing home dining room were music to God’s ears, sufficient to arouse the applause of angels, archangels, and all the company of heaven. 

You’ve heard what was said to the people of ancient times.  If you want to try to meet the demands of the Law the old-fashioned way, good luck to you.  But Jesus offers us a new way: by walking with him.  So come, let us sing unto the Lord.  Let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation. 

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YOU ARE THE SALT AND THE LIGHT

The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany

February 5, 2023

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? … You are the light of the world. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under a bushel basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. (from Matthew 5:13ff)

What did Jesus mean when he challenged his followers to be salt and light? Let me tell you about an everyday incident that might prove instructive. The place was a public middle school cafeteria where students from grades five through eight would eat their lunch. One day a student opened the carton of milk she had purchased and received an unwelcome surprise. Floating inside was a dead insect. A few days later someone else claimed that his hamburger was raw. Soon a student-led movement began to boycott the school’s cafeteria. Crude posters went up on the walls depicting the state of ill health that would result from eating the food prepared in the cafeteria. Sure enough, on the day that the boycott was to begin, the line that usually backed out into the hallway and took forever to get through was barely a trickle. The boycott was working at all lunch periods. The students were proving their point.

Finally, after about a week of the boycott, the vice principal of the school addressed all of the lunch periods. First, he apologized for the incidents that had brought about the boycott. Next, he detailed what they had done to address the situation, including the Board of Health’s inspecting the cafeteria kitchen, and reviewing the vendors who supplied the food. Then he explained the impact that the continuance of the boycott would have on the school. The most serious of all was that cafeteria workers who depended on their jobs could be laid off. Everyone listened intently as the vice principal appealed for an end to the boycott. Finally, he put the question to the assembly: “Who’s ready to end the boycott? May I see a show of hands?”

Every student there knew perfectly well that the boycott had already proved its point, and that the right thing to do was end it. One student, any student, willing to risk being salt and light would have made the difference. One raised hand would have started a chain reaction of other raised hands, and the boycott would have been over. Sadly, everyone hesitated, and not a single hand went up. The boycott continued for reasons no one any longer understood.

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.” What do you think? Was Jesus giving his followers a compliment or a commission? Was he patting them on the back, or urging them to get to work? If I were to come up to you later today and say, “You are the salt of the earth,” my guess is that though your brow might furrow a bit, you would generally take it as a compliment and utter a somewhat guarded, “thank you.” Likewise, if I were to greet you and say, “You are the light of the world,” you would stand taller and receive the words as high praise – though you might secretly think that I was exaggerating or being sarcastic. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world. Is it a compliment? Or is it a commission? I believe that the answer is yes. The answer is both compliment and commission, with an emphasis on commission. If Jesus were, in fact, conferring on his listeners some lofty status, he was not intending it to be for their mere enjoyment. He was doing so because he had a purpose in mind for them. Salt and light have a purpose.

Since ancient times people have used salt for two general purposes: as a seasoning to bring out the flavor of food, and as a preservative against decay. It seems to me that salt’s use as a preservative may be what Jesus had in mind. In his time and place people lived close to the land. Uneaten meat and fish would spoil quickly and become inedible. Modern methods of food preservation hadn’t been invented. People knew nothing of microorganisms and how they break down organic matter. But they had discovered that salt greatly prolonged the shelf-life of food. They didn’t know why, but salt held back the decay. Salt performs a conservative function. It arrests the progress of death and decomposition, which is the devil’s work. Thus, salt participates in holiness. Salt is the essential ingredient in the holy water used in exorcisms. Legend has it that the devil doesn’t like salt. What have people done when they think the devil is behind them, tempting them to do wrong? They throw a pinch of salt over their shoulder to drive the devil away. Granted, a fine line runs between the superstitious and the symbolic, but you see how the metaphor functions. You are the salt of the earth. You are to be a bulwark against the devil’s doings.

You are the light of the world. The purpose of light hardly needs explaining, but the metaphor of light, coupled with Jesus’ words about salt, conveys to us a similar commission. Salt holds back decay, and light dispels darkness. Anyone, Christian or not, who shines a light onto the dark schemes of evil and injustice is living into Jesus’ commission. Light also leads the way to the city of God. Thus, if salt is conservative, light is progressive. It takes both. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. When Jesus first spoke these words, his Jewish hearers would have taken his reference to a city to mean Jerusalem, the city of God. To set Jerusalem in its prominent place, on a hill for all to see, would require them to be salt and light. For us, our commission as followers of Jesus is the same: to shake the salt and shine the light.

What holds us back? A few days ago, I was in midtown, making my way to the E-train, and descending a long escalator at the 5^th Avenue station. On the wall to my right was a series of identical posters all the way down, the same poster every six feet or so. You can’t miss them. If I recall, the ad was for some sort of insurance firm. I don’t really remember. But the slogan itself is what stuck in my mind. It declares, “We’ll always get the future wrong” Down, down I went, with the constant reminder that we’ll always get the future wrong. It made me wonder if what holds us back from being salt and light is fear – fear that we’ll get the future wrong. I suppose in the small world of a middle school cafeteria, it was fear of getting their future wrong that prevented the students from standing up for what they knew was right. It was fear of the social ramifications they would incur by breaking ranks with the others, and raising a hand. No one was willing to be salt or light.

In Memphis, TN last month, none of the police officers involved in the arrest of Tyre Nichols was willing to be salt or light and stop the savage, fatal beating of an unarmed citizen. No one was willing at any moment to break ranks with the other officers and shout out like a trumpet, “Stop. This is wrong.” The powers of death are always counting on people not raising a hand, not standing up, and not persevering in resisting evil. Speaking of evil, Vladimir Putin is counting on the west growing weary of his criminal war, and leaving Ukraine to his own devices. He’s counting on the world being like the priest and the Levite on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho, passing by on the other side, and looking the other way to avoid a helpless traveler, beaten and bleeding in the ditch (Luke 10:25-37). Only the Samaritan was willing to shake the salt and shine the light.

Jesus ended the parable of the Good Samaritan by saying, “Go, and do likewise.” It sounds clear enough, but you and I may feel completely inadequate to the task of holding back the evil powers of this world. You may feel underpowered to dispel the darkness of those who corrupt and destroy the creatures of God. So down, down we go, always getting the future wrong. Take heart: the promise of the gospel is that Jesus never commissions us to a task without giving us the means to accomplish it. In today’s reading from 1^st Corinthians, we’ve heard St. Paul describe how we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit that is from God, so that we may understand the gifts bestowed on us by God. As Martin Luther wrote in his great hymn, and here I will paraphrase: The Spirit and the Gifts are ours through him who sides with us.

If we truly believe that Jesus commissions us to be salt and light in the world, then it logically follows that God cares about how things unfold on this earth. Not only does God care, but God intervenes. In fact, God gets personally involved in restoring, quickening, soothing, and blessing a bruised and battered world. How? Does God tinker with the laws of nature? Does God stop bullets in mid air? Is God given to the grand interventions that leave no doubt who’s in charge, and assure that history goes the way he wants? I’m not putting any limits on God’s divine ability, but it seems to me that God most often chooses a different way. God, who is Spirit, merges his Spirit with our spirits to raise up willing people to be salt and light and accomplish his purposes on earth. God sent the Spirit and raised up the prophet Isaiah to be salt and light and rail against the injustices taking place in Jerusalem, the city of God. Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet (Isaiah 58:1-12)! God sent the Spirit and raised up the Apostle Paul to preach the Gospel to the Gentiles, and establish churches wherever he could travel.

I believe the same Spirit of God is at work today at Grace Church. Later on today is the Annual Meeting of the parish, so it’s an appropriate moment for us to take stock of how we shake and shine. It was in 1808 when Trinity Church established us downtown, directly across the street from themselves. Since then we moved uptown, built this inspiring edifice to the glory of God, and ministered to waves of immigrants entering the United States through Manhattan. We established Grace Church School, and in partnership with them, the GO Project to reach children and families falling through the cracks. In recent times we’ve sponsored and built two houses with Habitat for Humanity. Little by little, we’ve been restoring the glorious interior of Grace Church, and we’ll soon begin some exterior work on the parish house. We keep the church open seven days a week. With volunteer hours and financial grants we support the Red Door Place, so that our neighbors in need may eat. God intervenes through us. Let me say it again: God, who is Spirit, seeks to merge his Spirit with our spirits, and raise up willing people to be salt and light to accomplish his purposes on earth. It is why we pray, why we receive the Sacrament, why we read and study the Scriptures: to receive the mind of Christ, to merge our spirits with God’s Spirit and say, “Here we are, Lord. Send us.”

I think again of that middle school cafeteria, where no one was willing to be salt and light. No one raised a hand when it was clear that it was the right thing to do. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t raise my hand in the moment. You see, I was a student there. I was largely a spectator of the controversy, having had nothing to do with organizing or really even participating in the boycott. I always brought my lunch from home because my parents thought it was too expensive to buy it every day. Even still, one hand raised, my hand raised, could have ended the boycott. Everyone knew the right thing to do. No one was willing to do it.

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world.” No, the earth did not pivot in a middle school cafeteria. The world did not turn on our failure to act. But opportunities to be salt and light will present themselves in the most mundane of places. The chance to get the future right may be at hand when you least expect it. If we practice being faithful in the small things, when it really matters we will be ready to love and serve the Lord, with gladness and singleness of heart.

Epi3a2023

Epi1a2023