Reformation Observance

Great recent article on ecumenical efforts to continue in the journey toward unity among Catholics and Lutherans in preparation for the 500th anniversary of the Reformation in 1517.

Sermon - July 29, 2012

In recent decades here in the United States, one of the most frequently reported and familiar manifestations of piety has centered around the end of the world. Popularized through novels and films such as the Left Behind series, these stories weave tales of sudden, catastrophic vengeance wrought upon a sinful, fallen humanity. A fortunate few individuals are “raptured” and thus spared the destruction, but for almost everyone else—and certainly for the rest of creation—the outlook is decidedly bleak, to put it mildly. 

In contrast to this extreme pessimism and resignation to earth’s destruction, another strain of popular culture takes almost the opposite view. Going all the way back to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and the other transcendentalists, there’s an equally powerful tendency in American culture to celebrate nature as quasi-divine. Forests, streams, meadows, oceans—and, yes, the mountains we honor today—all take on a kind of mystical aura that enables the individual to escape the hardships of life in the city and “get away from it all.”

Closer to home here in California, naturalists like John Muir did much to popularize this approach—identifying, as one recent commentator explains, “human health, vitality, and religious meaning with sensitive immersion in mountain wildernesses.” 

Now, on the surface of it, it’s understandable that both of these ideas—the pessimism about the fallen state of  “this world,” and the optimism about the wonders of creation—would have broad popular appeal. We have only to read the news each day to see the excesses and destruction we’re capable of as a species.

And, at the same time, here in this region where we’re fortunate enough to live, we have only to drive a few hours to take in the wonders of Muir Woods, the Pacific Ocean, Lake Tahoe, or the Sierra Nevadas. In fact, since we’re lucky enough to live where we do, it would be pretty easy to put two and two together and say: “well, since the world’s a mess, let’s just retreat into nature and escape from it all, back to the way things are supposed to be…”

In many ways this is an understandable response to the thorny problems and issues that surround us, especially in a big city like San Francisco, where we live. And yet, it’s not the response that the deeper spiritual tradition represented in scripture would call us to.

Instead, as we hear today from the prophet Isaiah, God’s dream for creation—which we know God created good—is not for its destruction but for its renewal and rebirth. Creation is groaning, as Paul reminds us as well—not out of trepidation at its impending doom, but out of hope that it might be restored and revitalized—that it might give life and glorify its creator in the process.

What’s so key, then, is our role—our part as human beings in this story. As we’ve discovered and affirmed throughout these four weeks of the Season of Creation, we don’t exist in isolation from creation. We’ve not been placed here as if from outer space, simply to use up resources at will and then be plucked back magically to safety, if we’re lucky. Rather, we are part of creation. Our life, our existence is inextricably linked to that of the entire rest of the planet—earth, sea, sky, mountains, plants, animals—everything. Together with all of creation, and only together with it, we find hope for our own destiny as well.

And yet it’s not so simple as merely retreating into the woods and “getting away from it all.” As anyone who’s ever actually tried it knows, there’s no such thing or place as a pristine, utopian, problem-free retreat from life’s cares. Rather, no matter where we may go, the truth is that life is always about interdependence. Wherever we may be, whether surrounded by the urban dynamics of San Francisco or the rural woods of the Sierra Nevadas, the key question to ask is not: “When will I be raptured?” or “Where can I escape to?”…but instead: “How can I, how can we, start living in ways that honor and build up all of creation—including ourselves—in a lasting and meaningful sense.

Here at St. Mark’s we’re well on our way, simply through the awareness of creation that we’ve been cultivating these past few weeks, as well as in all the ways we reach out and seek justice and peace in our community and the larger world.

But perhaps as we conclude these four weeks of the Season of Creation, we might also reflect on how we can continue to grow in this call to serve creation. For example, what more can we do as a participating congregation in Interfaith Power and Light, which Rev. Canon Sally Bingham spoke about a few weeks ago? // Or, how might we honor creation through supporting the ELCA’s recent advocacy work for prison reform? // Or, how can we continue to continue to work for justice and peace in our local community? //

All these and more are just some of the ways we might respond to God’s call to be good stewards of creation. In a popular culture that celebrates escapism of either the extra-terrestrial or naturalist sort, it’s good to remember together that the kind of renewal that really works and actually lasts—both for ourselves and for the creation of which we’re a part—is the kind that honors our connections to earth and immerses us in the vitality of a life lived not for self, or group, or nation, or even species—but for creation itself. Amen.

Sermon - June 10, 2012

Today’s readings talk a lot about evil. In the Book of Genesis we have the iconic story of Adam & Eve and temptation—in which the serpent exploits their insecurities and plants doubts about God’s trustworthiness, resulting in what’s come to be known forever since as “the fall.”

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus himself refers to the very real presence of sin and evil in the world and the need to oppose it—even when others don’t or won’t.

In short, there’s lots of talk of sin, the devil, Satan, evil, and temptation—things we just don’t tend to hear much about anymore.

And, on the one hand, that’s probably very appropriate. The gospel isn’t supposed to be about scaring us or filling us with a lot of guilt. It’s rather a message about God and God’s love—how we are God’s children and that Jesus came to set us free to be precisely that—to be who we really are.

Still, on the other hand, maybe there is some wisdom in the tradition that comes down to us through today’s readings. Perhaps there’s an importance to remembering that there’s something in human nature that can lead us away from God – that tempts us to believe in the illusions that we can completely control every aspect of our lives; or that we can achieve total happiness if only we grab hold of some or other particular thing; or that kinship ties and maintaining an approved public image are the be-all and end-all of life.

These were all temptations in Jesus’ time and they remain a significant challenge in our own. And while we might rightly recoil at references to “Satan,” “the devil,” or “evil spirits” when this language is disconnected from our everyday experience, perhaps there are some other ways to frame it that might make more sense in our own context.

In my own reflections, two images came to mind. The first comes from a ceremony that took place in New York City a few years ago in the wake of the financial crisis. A group of local pastors gathered outside the front doors of a major investment bank to perform an exorcism—yes, an exorcism. For these leaders, as for so many people, the bank was a symbol of the mind-boggling greed of individuals and institutions who received huge government bailouts, and yet often continue to exploit the poorest and most vulnerable through their ongoing policies and practices.

Making use of some of the traditional language about evil, but in a new and updated way, these pastors pointed to a deeper, enduring truth: namely, that there is a side of us that can easily give in to the illusion of achieving absolute security; or to the temptation to value public appearance and reputation over one’s deeper worth.

As we know, it can easily happen. But, as we also know all too well, the consequences—the misery and injustice these attitudes produce—can literally result in situations we might liken to hell.

A second image comes out of the Christian mystical tradition. Blaise Pascal, a 17^th century French philosopher and mystic reminds us that we each have a “God-shaped hole deep within”—a space that can only be filled by the divine. St. Augustine, the early church theologian, perhaps said it best: “our hearts are restless until they rest in God.”

In other words, there’s a deep place inside each of us that longs for transcendence, meaning, and fulfillment. But, often we try to fill that space with all sorts of things – for example, wealth, power, gadgets, fashions, popularity, approval, or whatever they may be. Jesus’ own family succumbed to this temptation—as, sadly, do our own sometimes—when they prioritized the family’s public reputation and approval over how God was moving through Jesus’ life and ministry.

As Jesus knew—and we too can discover if we’re awake enough to reality—none of these things we do to try and satisfy our spiritual hunger ever really fill us. On the contrary, they often leave us more unsatisfied and less at peace than ever.

But why exactly is this? Why doesn’t this work, despite all of our ongoing attempts to the contrary? If we think about, it’s actually kind of silly. We’ve got this part of us that opens out into the transcendent and the eternal—and yet we try over and over to fill it up with things we think will fill it and finally give us the sense of permanence, stability and security we’ve been seeking.

But of course we know that that never really happens. Instead, hopefully with time and with God’s grace working in us, we come to learn that having a transcendent, eternal part of us means, well…having a transcendent and eternal part of us—in other words, a part of us and of our lives that’s that not fully in our control and that perhaps we’re really not supposed to be able to fully wrap our minds around.

Maybe the key, then, is learning to live with this ambiguity, with the inevitability of change, with the presence of uncertainty or unpopularity or in our lives.

Maybe it’s learning that having a God-shaped space inside us means having a part of us that’s at once both a bit beyond our control and yet filled superabundantly with love and grace and goodness. And seeing that when we recognize this truth and let go a little bit it’s precisely then that we can best access that love and goodness and grace—realizing that when we “let go and let God,” we’re not so tied to making everything go our way and, because of that, we’re set free simply to love and be loved, both by God and neighbor.

As we learn to walk this path, we might ask ourselves some questions from time to time. For example, What are some of the ways that I lose sight of God’s love for me? What are the things I try to use to fill the space inside, that I know God alone can fill? What signs and workings of the Spirit do I miss by my preoccupations with image or self? How can I let go of my attempts to control too much and let God be God in my life?

Whatever our individual answers to these questions, we know that what unites us is both our common human weakness AND the shared divine strength and grace which are ours in Jesus. We who follow after the one who was not afraid to live out God’s radical mercy, justice, and love—even when it conflicted with what made others feel secure—have big shoes to fill. But the good news is that we’re not alone. In this journey of profound trust—of letting go and letting God—we’re surrounded and supported by a community of fellow pilgrims. We take consolation in this truth and sustenance in the hope that is ours in the one who—even in the face of sin, death, and evil—trusted in God and witnessed once and for all the power of the most radical truth of all: love. Amen.