Εν Τούτῳ Νίκα

Sunday is an important anniversary in the life of the Church.  I suspect it will, for the most part, go unnoticed.  Perhaps that is just as well, except in the sense of George Santayana’s perhaps misunderstood maxim that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.  Still, Sunday is the 1,700th of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, the day the church made an unholy deal with power and lost its freedom in the Gospel.  It is an important anniversary to mark because the deal with power is unraveling before our eyes, and we have a better opportunity than we have had in centuries to be free once again.  

The official story is that on October 28, 312, the Emperor Constantine fought a decisive battle at a place called the Milvian Bridge that made him the sole ruler of the Roman Empire.  The details of the spiritual side of this event vary, but the basic idea is that Constantine attributed his victory to a vision of the cross, or maybe it was the Chi-Rho, appearing in a blazing light above the sun bearing a message from God, which read, “Εν Τούτῳ Νίκα,” in this sign you will conquer, which was followed by a vision of the risen Christ instructing Constantine to use that sign against his enemies.  As this story goes, so began Constantine’s purported conversion to Christianity.

Now, I have to tell you, that does not sound much like Jesus to me, but it does sound a lot like the Church.  It has had a lot to do with our life ever since. 

Not too many years later, Christianity, which had begun three centuries earlier in witness that power was made perfect in weakness (2 Cor. 12:9), became the established religion of the Roman Empire, the epitome of worldly power.  From then until now really, the Church, particularly the clergy, especially the bishops, became identified with power, prestige, and privilege.  Today we are more democratic perhaps about how we distribute power and privilege, but they are power and privilege nonetheless.  Instead of being the voice of truth to power, the Church justified the use of power in the name of God.  Instead of being an instrument of peace, it perpetrated violence and preached the crusades.  Instead of being the advocate of the poor, the oppressed, and the marginalized, it became the defender of the established order.  Instead of a posture of self-offering, it assumed a posture of self-protection.  Bishops became princes.  Pastoral cures became administrative units based on those of the Roman Empire, which happened to be called dioceses.  Episcopal ministry took on the trappings of legal jurisdiction to the detriment of diakonia or service.  And the imperial authorities insisted that the church, contrary to its nature up to that point, order itself for the good of civil society even though it had existed quite well without universal councils of any kind and certainly without the Vatican, the Curia, the so-called Instruments of Unity of the Anglican Communion, the Anglican Covenant, and, God forgive me for saying so, the General Convention.  In short, we forgot.  We forgot about God.  Our memory and our perspective became impaired by our own power, privilege, and prestige.

We are finding that power, privilege, and prestige are hard things to give up, but they are crumbling all around us nevertheless.  The fact that they are crumbling appears to be decline, which has resulted in a great deal of anxiety and acting out by those still trying to cling to the Church that once was, but we are no longer the established Church nor the Church of the establishment.  As we are freed from the trappings of privilege, difficult though it may be, we have an unprecedented opportunity to remember about God, to make Christ present, to be who we really are.  I think the world’s salvation may be in that.  I know ours is.

In a letter to the community at Rome long before Constantine became the emperor, St. Paul gave us a truer vision of what it means to conquer.  He asked, “Who will separate us from the love of Christ?  Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?”  And then he answered, “No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”  (Rom 8:35, 37)

It turns out Constantine was right, just not in the way he thought.  We are beginning to come to ourselves again, the way Paul saw us and not so much the way we let Constantine use us.  Εν Τούτῳ Νίκα

Peace,

+Stacy

Oscar

My good friend Bart grew up in a different time.  His mother had died when he was young, and his father, the county judge, was left to raise two children on his own.  Bart’s dad hired two people to help him with being a single parent, Oscar and Mary.  Oscar drove and did yard work.  Mary cooked and cleaned.  Together they looked after Bart and his sister.  Oscar and Mary lived in an apartment in the basement of Bart’s family’s home.  Bart grew up being cared for on a daily basis primarily by Oscar and Mary.  He loved them like parents, and they loved Bart and his sister as their own.  Both of those things were true even though Bart never referred to Oscar and Mary as anything other than Oscar and Mary but Oscar and Mary called Bart, “Mr. Bart,” the difference in age notwithstanding.  That was the custom in those days where Bart and I grew up.  Domestic servants, who were always of another race, were called by their first names, but the familiarity was not reciprocal.  Domestic servants always appended “Mr.” or “Miss” to their employers’ first names, and those of their children, too. 

Many years later, when Bart was grown up and Oscar and Mary had long since moved into a home of their own, Mary died.  Bart was heartbroken as if his own mother had died again.  He went to Oscar and Mary’s house to pay his respects, which were considerable. 

The house was filled with visitors.  Bart sat down in the living room with Oscar.  “Oscar,” he said, no matter what happened in my life, I always knew that you and Mary loved me.”

That’s when Oscar said something terribly profound and shockingly truthful.  “Mr. Bart,” Oscar responded, “I got paid to love you.”

Jesus talks frequently about being a servant.  In fact, servanthood and love are perhaps the New Testament’s very highest value.  This week’s Gospel (Mk. 10:35-45) is a case in point. 

So Jesus called them and said to them, You know that     among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them.  But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.  For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.  (vv. 42-45)

Being a disciple of Jesus is about being a servant.  Servanthood, though, is a different thing depending on whether one looks at it from the perspective of the one serving or the one being served.  Servanthood looked different from Bart’s perspective than it did from Oscar’s.

Now here’s the curious thing.  Bart perceived nothing but love.  I have no doubt that Oscar loved Bart.  Still, Oscar’s love was not unqualified either.  Oscar got paid to love Bart.  Oscar loved Bart but recognized that things were a bit more complicated than that.

I don’t know quite what to make of this, but I think it is very much worth paying attention to.  For one thing, servanthood is not quite the simple thing we sometimes imagine it to be, at least from the servant’s point of view.  Most of us have a hard time imagining servanthood through the servant’s eyes.  I’m not sure Jesus would have.

For another thing, the things we do for love and the things we do for pay are not necessarily inconsistent.  In fact, justice sometimes requires just that.

But mostly it seems to me that the importance is where one stands to look at servanthood, the question of perspective, the perspective of the servant or the perspective of the one being served.  The servant has a fuller view of the reality, that things are not quite as simple as they may appear.  The servant has a view closer to what the truth, the complicated truth, actually is.  Could it be that that is what Jesus is hoping for, a fuller view of the truth, at least as much as the serving itself?

Peace,

+Stacy

Preferential Option for the Rich

Most of my ministry has been spent caring pastorally for people who by anyone’s standards are quite well off.  I have taken it as my responsibility to preach a fair amount about caring for the poor, not always to universal acclamation.  I remember once mentioning “redistribution of wealth” in a sermon.  Let us not get into how that went over!  In frustration, which I take to have been loving frustration, a friend in the congregation asked me exasperatingly, “Why is it that all Episcopal priests are Democrats?”  In an unholy moment of smart aleckness, I replied, “Well, that’s because we’ve actually read the Bible.”  (And, by the way, it is not in fact true that “Christian” and “Democrat” have any more to do with each other than “Christian” and “Republican.”)

Smart aleck or not, the theme of caring for the poor, the marginalized, and the oppressed does run quite consistently throughout the Bible.  There are examples in both Old and New Testaments too many to cite.  One of the Old Testament options for next Sunday is an example. 

Therefore because you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain, you have built houses of hewn stone, but you shall not live in them; you have planted pleasant vineyards, but you shall not drink their wine.  For I know how many are your transgressions, and how great are your sins-- you who afflict the righteous, who take a bribe, and push aside the needy in the gate.  (Amos 5:11-12)

It is such a consistent theme that it leaves one wondering what hope there is for the rich. 

And the most disturbing reality is that those of us in the United States find ourselves quite rich by the world’s standards.  The disparities among us, which are growing, sometimes distract us from this reality.  Still, almost all of us find ourselves, simply because of an accident of birth, in the very top percentiles of affluence.  It is a reality well worth contemplating in this election year as a person of faith, Republican or Democrat. 

So in light of what Amos and so much else in the Bible have to say about the rich, those who push aside the needy, even if only by circumstance, and God’s priorities, where does that leave us?  There is reason for hope. 

The gospel reading for Sunday (Mk. 10:17-31) is about an encounter between Jesus and an unnamed character.  Based on the parallels to the story in Matthew and Luke we often refer to him as the rich young ruler.  In Mark, however, he is simply “a man.”  He has obviously been paying attention to Jesus’ teaching, perhaps following him around Galilee, maybe from a distance.  He asks, “"Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”  (v.17)  I find myself wondering if, given his station in life, which Mark describes as having “many possessions,” he has not begun to get the message of God’s special care for the poor and wondering where that leaves him.

Jesus gives him two levels of response.  The first is like an introductory course.  Jesus refers him to the commandments.  When the man asks for more, Jesus gives him the advanced course, the fuller and more difficult answer, an elaboration on what it means to obey the commandments.  “Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’”  (v. 21)  The man’s response points out the difficulty of the teaching, at least for the affluent.  “When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”  (v. 22)

Jesus’ answer is indeed shocking, disturbingly so.  It is not difficult to hear the significance of what Jesus said for ourselves.

What may be more difficult, however, is to see the hope.  First, there is this important affirmation.  Jesus looked at the wealthy man and loved him.  God, I believe, has a particular concern for the poor and expects us to have the same concern and act on it.  But that does not mean God is preferential in love.  God loves us as well.  Indeed, Jesus is sent to seek the lost, and perhaps that indicates a certain preference for people such as us, at least in this regard.

It follows that the shockingly difficult teaching is offered in love.  It is difficult, but it is loving.  It is loving for one thing because it is true.  It is hardly ever loving to hold back the truth, and certainly not when life depends on it.  And it is more than loving.  It can be read as expressing a certain confidence.  The teaching is offered in the confidence that it is possible to attempt to live accordingly.  It is not dangling something before us to tease us.  Jesus would not offer what is difficult without some confidence in us.

When Jesus goes on to speak to his disciples about this encounter privately, things get even more hopeful.  He acknowledges the extreme difficulty of what he has asked.  “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God!  It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”  (vv. 24-25).  Jesus knows he is asking something difficult.

Indeed, Jesus knows he is asking something more than difficult.  The disciples ask the obvious question for us, “Then who can be saved?”  Jesus answers with even more hope.  “For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.”  (vv.26-27)  For God, even our salvation is possible.  All in all, that’s not a bad thing to have hope in.

And perhaps the final word of hope comes in the way the story ends.  Jesus reminds his disciples of that preferential option for the poor again in a saying he repeats with some regularity.  “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”  (v. 31)  It may not appear like the best news at first, but I wonder if that is because we’re looking at it from the perspective of people who are used to being first and missing the implication.  The implication is that, while many who are first will be last, being last means, at the end, being included.  Even the rich are included in God’s grace.  In the end, the preferential option is for humanity.

  Peace,
+Stacy

Approaching Issues Pastorally

The Gospel for this week (Mk. 10:2-16) has always troubled me.  When I was young and my parents had recently divorced, I found it very painful to hear.  I learned two important things from that.  One is that Jesus was more interested in truth than what might hurt someone’s feelings.  The other is to listen more carefully to what Jesus was actually saying. 

I have listened a lot to this particular passage in the last decade because it bears heavily on the pastoral responsibilities of a bishop, one of which is to approve remarriages after divorce.  In that context, too, I have found it troubling as I tried to be a mediator of holy living in difficult and very personal contexts. 

How to handle this particular problem has been problematic to the Church for a long, long time.  Indeed, it seems to have been a problem for the very beginning.  Anglicans, if anyone, should know a little about this.  It has its fair share to do with how we came to be.

Approving of remarriage after divorce is something of a problem because Jesus seems to make reasonably clear that he didn’t approve of it at all.  Speaking to his disciples, he said, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”  (Mk. 10:11-12)  The teaching is unequivocal, no exceptions.  And it is harsh.  The law’s penalty for adultery was death according to Leviticus (20:10).  That’s a quotation from Leviticus we hardly ever hear even when we might be quick to turn to it regarding sexuality in other ways.  It is not too surprising that it wasn’t long before the Church began to find the no remarriage after divorce to be a little too tough a standard to live by and start to make some exceptions.  Take a look at Mt. 19:9. 

We have been struggling with this one ever since.  The Episcopal Church began struggling with whether divorced persons were allowed to remarry in 1809.  It became an increasing pastoral problem as divorce became more common and affected more families.  Finally, but not until 1973, remarriage following divorce became universally permissible in the Episcopal Church with a bishop’s permission.  It was entirely a pastoral motivation presented by a new understanding of the pastoral needs of real people for whom divorce was becoming an increasingly more common part of life.  The Church made a pastoral exception to what appears to be the unequivocal teaching of Jesus.  It is very Anglican.  Practically pastoral.  And facing reality with honesty. 

Now, it seems to me, the Church is being called to make another pastoral exception to its theological understanding of human sexuality and marriage.  This time the issue is a little different and has to do with same-gender couples, gay and lesbian couples for whom marriage in the most traditional understanding has not been a healthy or completely honest possibility.  The question before us, I think, is an awful lot like remarriage after divorce.  Will we make a pastoral exception to the traditional teaching?  We can’t pretend we aren’t willing to make exceptions.  We most certainly are, even officially, to say nothing about unofficial actual practices.  In fact, we have been doing it since the very beginning.  Straight people have made a giant exception, directly contradictory to Jesus’ teaching in the New Testament, to benefit ourselves.  The question before us is whether we will have a similar pastoral sensitivity toward others.  It seems to me there are some other teachings of Jesus that might apply to that. 

Peace,

+Stacy