Security is something I think we often want from
God, or from religion. But it is not always what we get. Sometimes we are
challenged, provoked, pushed towards new things. Our relationship to God can
sometimes force us to do something that we would not do on our own, something
like relating to other people, reaching out, having a open mind. There is
something about the predictability (and I don’t
at all mean this in a negative way) about our liturgy that in itself is
comforting. I am comforted by the order and rhythms of our liturgy. The
familiar nature of it. It isn’t that everything is the same every week, but a
number of things are, and God is praised every week. And that is a good thing.
I think it is especially a good thing in this age of anxiety or uncertainty
that we live in. As we draw close to the 11th anniversary of the
September 11th attacks, I suspect all of us found the slowly
unfolding news on Friday morning about a shooting at the Empire State building
rather frightening. Perhaps it was the way it occurred at a major New York landmark,
or maybe the way in which it seems to other violent acts this summer, the
Aurora Colorado movie theater shooting, or the shooting at a Sikh Temple in
Wisconsin. But even as the details emerged, which slowly told a story more
about an unpleasant work place rather than terrorism, it still had an air of
menace. And perhaps we are used to a gang related shooting in a project in
Brooklyn or up in the Bronx, but are unused to violence in the middle of
Manhattan. I suspect the importance of what the Empire state building means to
us contributed to this. It is un-nerving in a way that is both familiar and
uncomfortable for all of us as New Yorkers.
I think it is impossible for us to read our
Biblical texts this morning with out also considering what they offer us in
terms of comfort in the wake of a shooting that probably reminded each of us of
the comfort we seek in God. The comfort we seek is not unlike the comfort and
reassurance the disciples seek. But this week, like the last three we have been
hearing the unfolding of Jesus’ self revelation as the bread of life. The
eternal nature of this revelation is meant, I think, to be comforting, but the
disciples have a hard time taking comfort in it. Our modern ears have trouble
with it too. Last week Fr. John mentioned the ick factor, and that is very
real. The blood the flesh—it is perhaps one of the few moments when we, and the
disciples, might prefer Jesus to speak in obscure parables. Instead he speaks
plainly and directly. “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me,
and I in them.” This sort of language is difficult for us to hear because of
the way it forces us to confront the actual fleshy body of Jesus. For the
disciple though, it is difficult for almost the opposite reason. They are used
to dealing with fleshy Jesus. He is their friend, they walk and talk with him.
The side of Jesus they are still gasping to understand is Jesus in relation to
God. When Jesus explains that the bread of life he is talking about is
different from the bread of the ancestors, he is not just comparing the bread
to the manna, but he is also showing them that he is different from Moses,
different from other religious leaders and prophets. He is showing them that he
is not just sent from God, he is God. The disciples have a hard time with Jesus
as God. This is the hard teaching.
Jesus understands that this is hard. And Jesus
understands what part of his revelation is hard for them. He even suggests that
were he to ascend into heaven it might make things a bit easier for them to
see. But even then, I suspect there would still be disciples unable to fully
comprehend all of the aspects of Jesus. His humanity. His divinity. Just as for
us, though we declare the Nicean creed each week together as we will after the
sermon, and though these are the things we as a whole church believe, I am
willing to bet that each of us has our moments of not totally being comfortable
with both sides of Jesus.
Jesus sees many of the disciples fall away after
this declaration. And he even asks his apostles if they too want to take off,
but Simon Peter’s response might be some of the comfort that we are seeking.
Simon Peter sounds almost weary to me. He says “Lord, to whom can we go? You
have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are
the Holy One of God." It is as if he almost wishes this were not the case.
He is resigned to the fact that they believe. They have faith, or perhaps
translated a little more creatively, loyalty to Jesus. Once they have faith in
Jesus, regardless of how much Jesus changes their understanding of God, of
their lives, of how the world works, they are with him.
Some of the earliest followers in the church felt
like they were so with Jesus that they were like soldiers in an army for Jesus.
The militaristic language of the letter to the Ephesians was clearly a comfort
to the early Christians. However, for us this morning, as we have some part of
our mind stuck in violence, mired in thoughts about our gun laws, the belt of
truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes which prepare us for
spreading the Gospel of peace, the shield of faith, helmet of salvation and
finally the sword of spirit. Of course the letter reminds us this is not for
our enemies of the flesh but the rulers, authorities, and cosmic powers of this
present darkness. Of course, we can understand the metaphorical nature of this
language, and we can understand how the letter is taking the weapons that these
early Christians are being oppressed by and re-imaging them, and reclaiming
them as tools the Christians can use to protect themselves. I don’t find this
language particularly comforting, and in fact, I even find it rather jarring.
Even when the sword is a sword of spirit, I can still feel the violence
associated with the sword. This is perhaps the problem with reclaiming
language, that other meaning is still there, causing trouble. This is hard language for us to hear in
moments like these as we are thinking about violence and death.
The psalm assigned for today is far more
appropriate for us. The vision of God it proclaims is a responsive God.
“The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous, *
“The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous, *
and his ears are open to
their cry.
The righteous cry, and the
LORD hears them *
and delivers them from all
their troubles.
The LORD is near to the
brokenhearted *
and will save those whose
spirits are crushed.
Now this is a image of God I
think we can all get behind this morning. It depicts God who hears our cries,
who saves us when we need it, and who is near to us in our distress, this seems
wholly appropriate for our present moment, and offers us that sweet comfort we
have been looking for.
That’s the thing about our Holy Scriptures though,
isn’t it? There is something we can find in there to support just about
anything we are feeling, well not anything, but the Scripture is so big and so
varied that one can find a line or two that perfectly matches what you need for
God and from God. It can be helpful as we think about the Empire State Building
violence to know that God hears our cries and is near us. And it is. But it is
a testament (literally) to the vastness of God that we can have such a variety
of visions and understandings of God in our sacred texts. During moments of
crisis and doubt, there often is a perfect Bible verse or passage that we can
reach for. My go-to has always been that passage from Luke’s twelfth chapter
where we are encouraged not to worry about what you will eat or what you will
wear, and offers up the opportunity to
“Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I
tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” It
is in the nature of God to be with us in our distress, but once we are out of
it, there is something else there too.
God is a shoulder for us to lean on when we need leaning, but also a
hand that helps us back on to our feet, a companion to walk with us along the
road, a gentle force pushing us towards greater good, deeper compassion, more
mutual relationships, and perhaps some energy and enthusiasm to confront the
forces that lead to the violence. And there is some very deep comfort in that.
I was comforted and encouraged by an article I read
in the New York Times this week. It was about residents in Harlem retaking
corners from drug-related activities. The article described a group (of mostly
older women) spending the night on the corner, talking about violence, praying
and singing, trying to ensure that nothing untoward happened in their very
small neck of the woods. The hard teaching for them was the deep roots of
violence, crime and drug use in their neighborhood. There was something futile
seeming about their effort, it was so incredibly small, one corner on one block
in harlem, but it was also something that these people were willing to give up
their precious sleep in order to improve their community’s life. When I think
of this rag-tag band of people staying out all night hoping to disrupt business
as usual on their block I can’t help but think of the apostles. Everyone else
has left, but they are still there. They, like the apostles, are dealing with
some of the very real, fleshy aspects of life. They cannot help but believe
that, with God’s help, they can make a difference on their block. And so when
the night grows long, when they wonder if they too should head home, they, like
the apostles answer “where can we go Lord?” and they stay there, keeping vigil.
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