Paying Attention

Jesus told his disciples a parable:  “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near.

So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near.”  (Lk. 21:29-31)  The signs, Jesus said, will be there for us to know that God is coming near.  But you have to be paying attention.

Now, Jesus pointed to signs in the natural world.  He used a fig tree in the parable.  Just before that he had been talking about other natural phenomenon, some of a dramatic nature, sun and moon and stars and sea and waves.  We know something about the dramatic forces of nature as of late.  And, sure enough, whenever there is some horrendous force of nature that wreaks havoc on us, we begin to ask ourselves about signs.  What is God trying to tell us? 

I wonder, though, if the natural phenomena don’t distract us from the signs we ought to be paying attention to, no less apparent to those watching, but tending to be overlooked because we cannot so easily attribute them directly to the hand of God.  For those who are paying attention, though, they seem to be screaming out for attention.  They seem to cry out:  “Pay attention!  Watch!  Listen up!”  When such things take place, surely the reign of God must be about to break in.

I’m thinking about things like economic signs.  Corporate greed results in the near-collapse of the world economy.  The rest of us are held hostage and have no choice but to bail the whole system out or suffer the consequences of someone else’s greed even worse.  Something is terribly wrong with the signs, as the Occupy movement has tried to tell us.  Are we paying attention? 

The middle class lifestyle I grew up taking for granted is becoming harder and harder to maintain, almost impossible, without all the adults in a household working outside the home.  Does anyone notice that, all the gadgets in the world notwithstanding, life is getting harder and not easier to say nothing of the fact that it’s not getting better?  Something is terribly wrong with the signs.  Are we paying attention?

One of the first things we decide we can no longer afford is beauty.  The arts suffer.  Architecture becomes more utilitarian and less a source of wonder.  Can you imagine someone proposing to build something like Grand Central Station with its magnificent ceiling or the Chrysler Building today?  No one would put up with that sort of expense for a train station or an office building for a minute.  Things that touch on what it is to be truly human and that introduce that humanity to the rumbling of great machines or the conduct of commerce are the first to go leaving nothing to counterbalance them.  Is anyone paying attention?

In order to keep our country from falling off the fiscal cliff, we are all held hostage to what is emerging as a “compromise,” which means the trading of a greater contribution from the wealthiest toward the common good from which they so richly benefit in exchange for taking something away from the poorest of all.  Is anyone noticing that there is something wrong with this?  Is anyone reading the signs?

And then, of course, there actually are the sea and waves and wind.  Acts of God are one thing, but acts of God helped along by human degradation of the creation are another.  There are those urging us to pay no attention to these signs.  Will we?

The signs are all around us.  Signs these days, if they ever did, may not come right up and slap us in the face.  They take, and always have, paying attention.  That is what Jesus is saying to the disciples in this lesson for the first Sunday of Advent.  Pay attention!

And why pay attention?  Because God is coming.  This situation is going to be set right.  What I have no doubt of is that God does not will the way things are.  The way things are is God’s call to action—God’s action and ours in concert.  The promises of God will be fulfilled. 

We are reminded of that in this week’s reading from Jeremiah.

The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah.  In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.  In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: “The Lord is our righteousness.”  (Jeremiah 33:14-16)If you’re paying attention, you’re going to see it happen.  If you’re paying attention, you’re seeing it happen now.  If you’re paying attention, you have an opportunity to be a part of it.  

Peace,
+ Stacy

(This week’s reflection is based on the readings for the First Sunday of Advent, Year C.)

Thanksgiving

This reflection on Thanksgiving began in an entirely different, and darker, direction.  What I had on my mind was what it meant to be thankful in a world as deeply troubled as ours is and in which blessings seem so unevenly distributed.  It was with that theme in mind that I boarded the subway this morning, not terribly happy to be going to work (which, believe it or not, is unusual for me) and dreading the commute on this cold morning.  It didn’t make me feel any better when I just missed a B train and had to wait a long time on the next one.

When my train did come, however, I noticed my mood start to lift.  The subways are not generally thought of as having a positive effect on one’s outlook on life.  Perhaps that is because we’re not paying attention.

Across from me were a young boy, perhaps 7, and his grandmother.  They were completely caught up in each other.  She was telling him a story while holding his hand and stroking his hair from time to time.  The words were Chinese, but I could tell the basic plot line.  The boy’s brow would crinkle in puzzlement.  Then his eyes would grow wide with surprise.  When the grandmother would imitate a mouse chewing on his hand, he would laugh and his eyes would nearly close.  It made me smile.  Thanksgiving.

A young mother and her baby in a stroller got on and sat opposite the boy and his grandmother.  The baby was perhaps 6 months old.  Very cute.  He mostly watched his mother, and she never took her adoring eyes off him.  Occasionally he would glance at other faces, once at mine.  When he started to make a sound, the young mother, perhaps out of concern for the other passengers, reached for the pacifier.  I admit I was a tad disappointed as the sound was sort of a cross between a gurgle and a coo.  When she placed the pacifier in his mouth, she shot him a peace sign.  That made me smile, too.  Thanksgiving.

On weekday mornings in the tunnel where I change trains there is a man playing the accordion.  He plays well, even if he does have a limited repertoire.  He makes me smile.  Thanksgiving. 

It all made me think back and remember how my morning had actually begun, which is how it does every day.  It is so regular that it is far too easy to take it for granted.  I remembered walking out of the apartment, which I never do without Ginger reminding me that she loves me.  This morning was no exception. And Annie wags her tail.  More smiles.  More thanks.

Then there is the man who hands out newspapers at the entrance to the station on 42nd Street.  He always greets me with a big, wide smile, “Good morning, Pastor.”  This morning I intended to greet him first by wishing him a happy Thanksgiving.  He beat me to it.  Then he followed me half-way to the street insisting that I give his own Thanksgiving greetings to my family.  “Have a blessed day,” he concluded.  “And a safe one.”  It made me smile.  Thanksgiving. 

By this point I was seeing things differently.  What had seemed a cold day now seemed fresh and crisp.  I could feel the energy of New York City.  Thanksgiving.

And at the end of the trip came yet another blessing—being able to walk into the Church Center and engage the tasks to which God has set me, tasks that challenge and delight me.  It made me smile again.  Thanksgiving.

I realize the problem with my first approach to reflecting on Thanksgiving is that I wasn’t really seeing what was really around me.  Perhaps it is a problem of working at this level of the Church that it may be too easy to be distracted by the big picture and miss the small ones.  Or maybe I just wasn’t really looking at all.   So now I can be thankful that God opened my eyes this morning to see what is always there. 

It makes me smile.  And it makes me thankful. 

Peace,
+Stacy

All Saints Day 2012

There is a lot to try and make sense of over these last few days.  Few of us can believe the pictures we see on television.  A great many of us realize we narrowly escaped something truly horrible.  I hope you might let me take the liberty of telling you about my day on Wednesday, which has provided a very helpful lens for me to look on what Hurricane Sandy means to me. 

I emerged into the post-Sandy reality of Wednesday morning with more than a little trepidation.  I feared what damage I might find.  I feared what losses my friends and colleagues might have sustained.  I feared news I had not yet (and never did) receive about those with whom I work. 

I also feared what I knew would be hassle getting to and from the office with no subways and only limited bus service.  The uneventful trip to 815 (two uncrowded buses with little traffic on the street) lulled me into complacency.  Getting home was a dose of reality.

               

I left the office at 6:00 and headed to Grand Central.  I was under the misimpression that some limited train service was restored due to an erroneous communication from the city.  Apparently not on the East Side I thought, but I was not disheartened.

               

So I walked up to Madison Avenue.  I’ll take the bus I thought.  It came right away.  Packed.  Not a problem.  But the traffic was absolutely gridlocked.  In 30 minutes I had gone three blocks.  I decided the West Side had to be better.  Actually, as I thought about it, it was the 8^th Avenue subway I had been told was running, so I decided to walk up to 50^th Street and then across town.  I did.  The station was closed due to severe weather the sign said. 

               

So I started walking.  Surely Columbus Circle would be functioning.  I walked by the crane dangling above 57^th Street.  Now I can say I saw it. 

               

Columbus Circle, however, was also closed.  I began to get skeptical about the train.  Buses didn’t appear such a good option there, either.  Columbus Circles was perhaps the worst traffic mess I’ve ever seen in my life. 

               

I got to Lincoln Center.  Still no subway.  I gave up on that.  It turns out I’d misunderstood that things had reopened.  I opted for the bus up Broadway.  A few came.  Impossible to get on.  Walking seemed the best option.

               

At 72^nd Street with its forlorn, closed subway station in the middle of Broadway, I waited on the bus up Amsterdam.  Still, no luck.  However, this is where circumstances began to be illuminated by my neighbors. 

               

I heard the couple behind me talking.  “Is he a real one?”

“No, it’s a costume.  This is Halloween.”
               

“Uh-uh.  He’s real.”  I realized they were talking about me.  I once had a similar experience at a Purim festival at the synagogue down the street from my church in Atlanta where I received numerous compliments on the ingenuity of my costume when I stopped in one Sunday afternoon after church. 

               

“Nope, I’m real,” I said. 

               

“I told you,” one said to the other.  At that point they both felt compelled to tell me where they went to church, which I could tell was not frequently.  The conversation proceeded through a collection of religious clichés.  Finally, a bus came.  It was packed beyond belief.

               

“Go ahead, Father,” they said as they tried to make room for me to board the bus. 

               

“No, thanks.  I’ll wait for the next one.”  Forty more blocks of that conversation on a severely overcrowded bus sounded like a donkey ride through hell.  I passed.

               

Several more packed buses came.  It was now 8:00.  I was tired and hungry.  I decided to go into a restaurant behind the bus stop, have dinner, and try again after things had, I hoped, cleared up a bit. 

               

Well, that was a good move.  The restaurant was a diner, classic New York.  People talking funny, but incredibly kind to one another.  I watched a table of three elderly women sitting next to the window and thoroughly enjoying watching the Halloween costumes outside.  They would waive to the characters they thought had the best costumes.  They had made it through the storm and were clearly enjoying each other’s company, which I suspect is a regular event. 

               

My strategy turned out to be a good one.  By the time I got back to the bus stop, things had gotten better, and the MTA had put on the extended buses making everything move a whole lot faster.  I had no trouble getting on the next bus.  The traffic was gone.  It took a normal amount of time to get from 72^nd Street to 110^th at 9:00 at night. 

               

It’s a story of minor tribulation that probably had a positive impact on my health, to be sure, but at the same time, it was a great privilege to share this experience with you all.  What impresses me beyond words is the resilience of the people who live and work here, and most especially the staff of the Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society. 

I have heard from many of you, both before and after the storm.  I know of at least one person who was in an evacuation area.  I have heard from a number of people who had various kinds of property damage—lost fences, roof damage, car damage.  There is at least one flooded house among us, and even a car hit by a flying boat.  One of us had a hundred-year-old oak tree lift surreally from the earth and land gently right beside his house rather than splitting it in two.  Lots of us lost power, some now restored and some not.  A number are in the midst of significant devastation.  It is not uncommon for our colleagues to be living through very significant travel disruptions, or have no idea at the moment how getting to Manhattan will ever be possible or when. 

We will figure all of that out.  The main thing is that, at least at the moment, I am unaware of anyone injured.  I am very grateful for that.

And, despite what should have been a horrible day on Wednesday, you all made it something much different.  What I think about is a group of senior citizens who survived the storm enjoying streets filled with trick-or-treaters.  I think about a staff member who endured 4 ½ hours on a bus to get to work so that payroll could be done.  I think about a staff member who went to a neighbor’s house where there was power to charge her cell phone so she could stay in touch with the office.  I think about staff members who put together a car pool so they could get across the bridge over the East River when it was restricted to cars with high occupancy.  I think of staff members who walked so they could get here and staff members who stayed in constant touch when they couldn’t.  I think of a staff member who organized lunch for the skeleton crew who were able to come on Wednesday.  I think of staff members who made sure they took plenty of things home just in case they got stranded and couldn’t get back in for a while. 

There is devastation in what I have seen, but mostly what I see is resilience in the face of challenges, obstacles, hardship, and suffering.  In the midst of all the inconvenience, I experience you all, and the people of the city in which we live, being truly neighborly in the very best sense.  I experience you all as dedicated to your work and the people we serve.  On what should have been my worst day in New York City, you and the people of New York made it the best.  I am greatly privileged and blessed to work and live among you.

Now would be a good time to give thanks.  For many of us that will mean giving thanks to God.  For some, perhaps it means giving thanks to each other.  For others, perhaps giving thanks is a vague sense of relief.  I invite you to join in doing so together, whatever that may mean for you.

We will celebrate the first Community Eucharist (a word, after all, that means thanksgiving) in our effort to strengthen our chapel life on Wednesday, November 7.  I invite you to come and take this opportunity to be thankful together, to pray for those who are suffering, and to remember those who have died.  For myself, I will be thinking about my best day in New York . . . so far. 

Peace,
+Stacy

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