Tricia's Sermon 9/28

Proper 21A
September 28, 2008
St. Dunstan’s
The Rev. Patricia Templeton


All the Way Down



The great philosopher Alfred North Whitehead had just finished his opening lecture in a course on cosmology, the study of the universe, when an agitated student came up to him.

“I’m sorry, professor, but everything you said about the structure of the universe is wrong, dead wrong,” the student said.

The great philosopher patiently asked the young man to explain his own views on the subject.

“Well, the fact is that the entire universe sits on the back of a gigantic turtle,” the student said.

Whitehead was taken aback, but asked, “And what does that turtle stand on?”

Without blinking, the young man said, “Another turtle.”

“And what…” Whitehead began.

But before he could complete his question, his young challenger exploded with frustration.

“I know exactly what you’re going to ask, professor, and the answer is – it’s turtles, all the way down!”

Turtles all the way down. I thought of this story this week as I reflected on today’s reading from Paul’s letter to the Christians in Philippi.

Paul has been imprisoned for preaching the gospel, and he is writing to the church in Philippi from his jail cell.

He urges those in the church “to live their lives in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ.”

The church in Philippi is successful, cosmopolitan, ambitious and thriving. The congregation has a special place in Paul’s heart. “I thank my God every time I remember you,” he writes to them.

But because these Christians are so successful and ambitious, Paul offers them a warning.

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves,” he says.

And then, in an effort to show the Philippians how to live that way, the great teacher offers his own lesson on cosmology, the nature of the universe.

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.

“And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death – even death on a cross.”

In Paul’s view, the universe is supported on the back of a God who reaches all the way down to the depths of the earth, who empties the divine self and takes on human likeness.

The student in Whitehead’s philosophy class looks at the universe and see turtles all the way down. Paul looks at the universe and sees God all the way down.

The fact that God is not content to stay far away in the heavens, removed from the struggles of daily life on earth has profound implications for how we are to live.

We are to pattern our lives after the life of the God who was willing to come all the way down, who was willing to empty the divine self and take on human likeness.

Paul reminds us that the world’s standards of success are not God’s standards. By worldly standards, success is judged by one’s place in the hierarchy – climbing the ladder of success higher and higher. The more people below us on the ladder, the more successful we are.
But in God’s view of the universe there is no hierarchy. Instead there is a “lowerarchy,” a reaching down, a humbling of one’s self.

The word “humble” has at its root the Latin word humus, which means earth. For God, coming to earth in human form was an act of humbleness.

To be humble, or of the earth, does not mean to be weak or meek or self deprecating. To be humble means having the mind of Christ.

And having the mind of Christ means emptying ourselves of pride, ambition, and the need to always be climbing up the hierarchy. It means to empty ourselves of all that separates us from God, including all we associate with status and prestige.

Having the mind of Christ means to be willing to participate instead in the lowerarchy, in reaching out to be of service to others without regard for our own social status. It means putting others first, encouraging them, giving them a leg up, rejoicing when they succeed.

An episode in what was once one of my favorite TV shows, ER, features a hospital orderly, whose job it is to clean up the emergency room after the doctors’ work is finished. The orderly spends his day mopping up blood and vomit.

“I bet you hate your job,” one of the doctors says to him.

“No, I consider my job a privilege,” he replies.

When the doctor looks skeptical, the orderly continues, “You see, I’m a Christian. And I believe that all people are created in God’s image. And so when I come in here I don’t see blood and vomit. I see the image of God.”

The orderly may not be very high in the hospital’s hierarchy, but he has achieved the mind of Christ in his work.

When we learn, like the orderly, to live with compassion and sympathy, when we learn to reach out to others rather than climbing over them on the ladder to success, we find a paradox.

When Jesus, in the ultimate act of humility, died for us on the cross, he was exalted by God above all others, so that, as Paul says, “at the name of Jesus every knee should bed, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

The moment of Jesus’ greatest humility becomes the reason for his greatest exaltation. The last becomes first, the most despised receives the greatest honor. In the depths of the earth is the Lord of the heavens.

Jewish folklore tells the story of the rabbi who disappeared every Sabbath evening “to commune with God in the forest,” his congregation thought. So one Sabbath night they sent one of their members to follow the rabbi and observe the holy encounter.

Deeper and deeper into the woods the rabbi went until he came to the small cottage of an old Gentile woman who was extremely ill and crippled into a painful position.

Once there, the rabbi cooked for her, carried her firewood, and swept her floor. When the chores were finished, he returned to his little house next to the synagogue.

Back in the village, the people demanded of the one they sent to follow their leader, “Did our rabbi go up to heaven as we thought?”

“Oh no,” the man answered after a thoughtful pause. “Our rabbi went much higher than that.”

The one who humbles herself will be exalted. The one who serves will himself be served. That is the strange paradox of the gospel that proclaims that we will find God not only in the heavens, but all the way down.

Amen.

Tricia's Sermon, 9/21/08

Proper 20A
September 21, 2008
St. Dunstan’s
The Rev. Patricia Templeton

The Reluctant Prophet

Several years ago a band called The Crashtest Dummies had a hit song entitled “God Shuffled His Feet.” In the song, it’s the Sabbath Day, and God has decided to enjoy the day of rest by taking some people on a picnic.

The people and God are kicking back, sitting on a blanket, drinking wine and chatting. After God tells a rather bizarre story, someone asks this question:

“I beg your pardon, God: I’m not sure what you just spoke –

“Was that a parable, or a very subtle joke?”

That question could be asked about the Book of Jonah, a bizarre little story, the ending of which we heard this morning.

The story of Jonah is a parable, a simple story used to illustrate a religious message, but it also a subtle joke, using humor to convey some very serious lessons.

My guess is that what most of us remember about Jonah is that he was swallowed by a big fish. It’s a favorite children’s Bible story, but there is much more to Jonah than that fanciful tale of being swallowed by a whale.

The story begins with God appearing to Jonah and ordering him to go to the great city of Nineveh to warn the people there that if they do not repent of their wicked ways, God will destroy them.

But Jonah doesn’t want to go to Nineveh, and so instead he hops on a boat, planning to sail across the sea to a place where he can escape from God’s presence.

Of course, that is impossible to do. God knows that Jonah is on the boat, and sends a huge storm that batters the ship across the sea.

While Jonah is asleep, the sailors struggle against the storm, praying to their gods for help. But no help comes, and finally the ship’s captain goes to Jonah.

“What are you doing sound asleep?” he asks. “Get up, call on your god! Perhaps your god will spare us a thought so that we will not perish.”

Jonah admits that his god is probably angry at him for running away, and suggests that the sailors throw him overboard to appease his god and stop the storm.

Reluctantly, they do so, and the storm stops. Then God sends the big fish to swallow Jonah, and Jonah stays in its belly for three days and nights.

Apparently, a sojourn in a fish’s stomach is enough to humble even the most rebellious prophet, and Jonah prays to God for forgiveness and deliverance. God directs the fish to spit Jonah out on dry land.

One would think after this kind of experience Jonah would have learned his lesson. And indeed, when God appears to Jonah again with the order to go warn the people of Nineveh, Jonah obeys.
Now remember that Jonah is a Hebrew, one of God’s chosen people of Israel. Nineveh is the capitol of Assyria, the historic enemies and enslavers of the Hebrew people.

The people of Nineveh are notoriously evil and wicked. Good Israelites have nothing to do with them.

But Jonah, fresh from the belly of the whale, sets out for Nineveh. He walks through the city, crying out, “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”

And then an amazing thing happens. The Ninevites, those notoriously evil people, repent.

“The people of Nineveh believed God,” the story says. “They proclaimed a fast, and everyone, great and small, put on sackcloth.”

When the king of Nineveh hears Jonah’s warning, he orders everyone to “turn from their evil ways and from the violence that is in their hands.”

“Who knows?” the king says. “God may relent and change his mind; he may turn from his fierce anger, so that we do not perish.”

And indeed, when God sees that the people of Nineveh have repented, have turned from their evil ways and begged forgiveness, God does relent, the divine mind is changed, and the people of Nineveh are spared.

One would think that Jonah would be delighted. He has done what God has asked him to do. He has been successful. People have listened to him. He has saved an entire city!
But Jonah is not happy. He is angry – furious at God.

“I knew this is what would happen,” he whines. “That’s why I ran away in the first place. I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing.”

Jonah does not mean those words as a compliment.

Jonah believes that God has wasted his time and put him through quite a lot – the stormy sea, the belly of the fish, the long trek to Nineveh, and the difficult task of preaching repentance.
Jonah doesn’t want God to be gracious and merciful, slow to anger and ready to relent from punishing. Jonah doesn’t want the Ninevites to be saved. He wants God to let them have it. They deserve to be destroyed, not forgiven.

Jonah is so angry that God has had compassion on his enemies that he wishes God would kill him. He goes to sit outside the city to pout and watch, on the slim hope that God might destroy Nineveh after all.

While Jonah is sitting there sulking in the hot sun, God appoints a bush to grow over his head and shade him. The bush makes Jonah happy.

But the next day, God sends a worm to attack the bush and kill it, leaving the sun to beat down on Jonah’s head. Once again, he is angry at God.

God asks Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry about the bush.”

“Yes,” Jonah retorts. “Angry enough to die.”

God responds, “You are concerned about the bush for which you did not labor, and which you did not grow. And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals?”

With that question, the funny little book of Jonah, this parable with its subtle jokes, comes to an end.

But beneath the humor of this story of the rebellious prophet pouting because he has saved a city from destruction are some serious lessons.

First, we learn about the expansiveness of God’s caring, juxtaposed against the pettiness of Jonah, and ourselves. If we’re honest, how many of us really want good things to happen to our enemies?

How many of us really want to help save our foes? How many of us would react with delight to learn that the group of people we hated the most, that we looked upon with scorn and disgust, that we held up as the paragons, or axis, of evil – had suddenly changed their ways, become the good guys, were looked on with favor by God?

We’re really not that different from Jonah.

And yet, in contrast there is God – a God who cares about all of creation. A God who truly wants to see all of creation prosper.

A God who cares for creation this much is a God who is flexible in mind and heart.

God’s mind can and does change. God’s heart is moved by pity and compassion. One can imagine God sighing with relief when the people of Nineveh repent, allowing God to scrap the plan of destruction.

God’s ability to be moved by compassion, to be slow to anger and quick to forgive, is what makes Jonah angry.

Jonah has fallen into one of the most prevalent sins of those who believe they are part of a special, elite group. In fact, Jonah is one of God’s chosen people, the Israelites.

But Jonah has forgotten what it means to be chosen by God. God chooses people not for special privileges, but for special responsibilities. The special responsibility of the people of Israel is to be a blessing for all the peoples of the earth.

By going to warn the people of Nineveh, Jonah is doing just that. But he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want them to be blessed; he wants them to be destroyed.

The story of Jonah reminds us that no person or place is outside of God’s care and concern. Israel, and Jonah, have a special covenant with God, but the divine loves extends beyond any covenant. We should never begrudge the divine generosity.

The story of Jonah also reminds us that anyone or anything can be used for a divine purpose.
Even though Jonah doesn’t really like being a prophet, we can imagine that at times he may feel a little smug about being called by God for this important task, just as Israel at times feels smug about being God’s chosen people – just as we at times may feel smug about our own importance and usefulness.

But when we start feeling too smug, remember the story of Jonah. When important work is to be done, God calls on a fish, a storm, a bush – and even a worm – to aid in the divinely appointed task.

And conversely, when we’re feeling small and inconsequential, when we feel like nothing we can do will make a difference, when we think there is no use in even trying – remember that the God who appointed a worm to a divine task can surely make use of us.

Amen.

Monday Video: Jim Gaffigan on Religion

I sponsor the Comedy Club at school, where we watch stand-up comics and sketch comedy videos. Sometimes we even discuss them. I love Jim Gaffigan because he (and Brian Regan) is one of the few clean comedians out there, making the suitable for junior high students. Here's Gaffigan talking about religion. Enjoy! And I hope I don't get electrocuted for posting this.

David Foster Wallace, Dead at 46

I know this is a church blog, but since I'm the one doing the writing, I get to indulge my own desire to write about something important to me: David Foster Wallace's death on Friday. The NY Times has a great obituary that summarizes his life and talents better than I could.



I wrote my MA thesis on Infinite Jest, DFW's (as he was known by his fans) masterpiece. As all articles and reviews point out, Infinite Jest was 1, 076 pages long, the last 96 pages being footnotes that you had to read as they came up in the main text.



This is the one novel that I love to push on people, insisting they read it. While it seems intimidating and long (one reviewer actually said that she didn't read it because it was too long and too heavy, more useful for holding down your beach towel than for reading), I really got into it while on vacation (before children, of course) and read the last 700 pages in the last three days of vacation. And while lots of people disparage the ending, when you figure out where the final scene fits into the non-linear story, you see how powerful and beautiful Wallace's writing can be.



As DFW said in his Salon.com interview, in IJ he tried to do something sad and funny and deeply intellectual all at the same time. And he nailed it. It is all of those things and more. Plus you can add all the insightful cultural commentary that makes you look at the world in a different way: America's addiction to entertainment, athletes' lives being similar to drug addicts, the power of Alcholics Anonymous, etc.



Because of all these reasons, I think that this novel might be remembered as one of the best novels of the 1990s, and DFW as one of the best writers in America.



But he was also a deep believer in humanity and the power of empathy. Read this commencement speech at Kenyon College, and you'll understand. And when he says the power of education is to teach us the power to actually think and control how we see the world, to choose to think in an empathetic way. As he says,

[Choosing how to think, free of society's constant, weakening
distractions] is real freedom. That is being educated, and
understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the
default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had,
and lost, some infinite thing. . .

It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime. And it commences: now.

Good words to live by. And unfortunately difficult for some of us, even the speaker, to remember.

Rest in peace, Mr. Wallace.

PS: Here's a short story DFW published in Esquire that I teach my 8th graders every year. It is short, but powerful, and the kids love discussing what the ending means and how an entire story can be only one paragraph long. Enjoy reading.

Brother Heavy Metal

I've been meaning to write about this Italian priest for awhile (yes, I know his website is in Italian, but it's still neat to see the man). He goes by Fratello Metallo, or Brother Metal, and he's a priest who sings in a heavy metal band. (Here is the story about him on Public Radio International's "The World" where you can hear him singing some of his songs.)

I love the idea of a heavy metal singing priest. Naturally, as the stories point out, religion is a constant theme to his music. And while some people object to his music being so Catholic, hoping he would keep his religion to himself (see "The World"'s article), his superiors have given him full approval.

That is what makes this story so cool to me: a religious group that is not trying to stay anachronistic, but rather embraces the present day. Instead of wishing the world could try to conform to them, they are trying to approach the world as it is, in new meaningful terms. And those meaningful terms include crowd surfing.

If singing is praying twice (as St. Augustine famously said before he heard me sing), perhaps head banging does too. It's just a new way for the Spirit to move you.

And to any choir members reading this, I have a great idea for a Fra Metallo-inspired Evensong.

Tim Black's blog

Here's a link to the blog of Tim Black, St. Dunstan's seminarian. (Sorry if that sounds awkward, but I hate several possessives in a row.) He has some interesting ideas on the whole Bristol Palin controversy and its impact on the race.

Comments can be left here; hate mail can be left at Tim's blog.

Tricia's Sermon for 9/7/08

by The Rev. Patricia Templeton




Ever since reading today’s Gospel earlier in the week, I have been thinking about a young man I once knew named Todd.

Todd grew up in the Midwest as a Jehovah’s Witness. His father was a leader in that denomination’s hierarchy. His mother was active in the local congregation. The family’s life revolved around the church – there were no other social interactions or activities outside its orbit.

From a young age, Todd was groomed for a leadership position in the church. He was a golden boy. He learned the Bible from front to back. As a teen-ager, he preached frequently. He was active in every aspect of church life, and the church dominated every aspect of his life.
When he was still very young, Todd married a pretty young woman who was also, of course, a devout Jehovah’s Witness. Great things were expected of the couple.

But there was one problem. Todd was gay.

Todd knew by heart the handful of scripture verses that mention homosexuality. He accepted his church’s literal interpretation of scripture, the view that homosexuality was a great evil and sin.

He tormented himself with those verses, praying and begging God to take away his sin. He did everything he could to quash and deny that part of himself, including marrying the young woman he cared deeply about, but whom he could never truly love as a husband loves a wife.
Eventually Todd realized he could not continue to live the lie that his life had become. He confessed to his wife, his family, and his church the truth about who he was.

The response was swift.

Scripture is clear that homosexuality is an abomination, the church elders, including Todd’s father, said. Todd had a choice. He could repent and change, or he would be banished from the church.

Being banished meant more than just not being able to attend services. It meant having no contact with any church member, even his family.

Indeed, church members who had contact with him, including his parents and siblings, would themselves be banished and shunned.

For a while, Todd tried to remain in the town where he had lived his entire life. But it was too painful. Eventually he moved to another part of the country, far away from the community that shunned him.

He found a partner who he truly loved, was successful in business, and found his way to the Episcopal Church. He became a confirmed Episcopalian, an enormous step for someone who once believed that salvation was reserved only for Jehovah’s Witnesses, the only true Christians.
But even with finding love, success, and a community of faith and a God who allowed him to be honest about who he was, Todd was haunted by his banishment from his family and the community that had once been his life.

Each year on Maundy Thursday, he went to the local Jehovah’s Witness service and sat in the back row, in a pew reserved on that day for those who were shunned.

When I asked him why he subjected himself to that kind of humiliation and pain, he shrugged. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “But somehow it keeps me connected to my family and the community that formed me.”

A few years ago, Todd died of a heart attack at age 39. I can’t help but believe that the pain and stress inflicted upon him in the name of Christ was a contributing factor in his death.

I never spoke to anyone from that community or from Todd’s family, but my guess is that they would justify their actions by citing the verses of scripture that we heard in today’s gospel reading.

In that passage from Matthew’s gospel, Jesus outlines how to deal with sin and conflict within a congregation. Ultimately, he says, if the sinner refuses to repent, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

Most faithful Jews refused to have contact with non-Jews or tax collectors, although we might note that Jesus himself tended to ignore that bit of the traditional purity code, and was often criticized for his interaction with those unclean and unsavory characters.

Jehovah’s Witnesses are not the only Christians today who build an important part of their communal life around this passage, and who interpret it in a harshly literal and legalistic manner.
Two years ago, when a man burst into an Amish school in Pennsylvania, shot and killed five young girls, and severely wounded five others, the Amish community immediately forgave the killer, an act that shocked the nation more than the killings themselves.

Forgiveness is central to the Amish life, even the forgiveness of such heinous acts as the murder of children. And yet also central to Amish life is church discipline as outlined in today’s Gospel reading, including the practice of shunning.

“Some outsiders think that shunning is barbaric,” admitted one community member quoted in a book I recently read about the school tragedy, Amish Grace.

The authors cited an Amish woman who fell in love with a non-Amish man, and was shunned by the Amish community.

“A terrible killer might be forgiven, but a woman in love with an English man could not be.
Where is forgiveness for her?” the writer asked.

I think most of us see the practice of shunning as harsh and unchristian. Does that mean we just toss out this passage of scripture, or is there something of value here?

It helps to look at this passage within the context of the entire chapter of Matthew in which it is found, a chapter that as a whole warns against the kind of self-righteousness and harsh judgment that this isolated passage seems to inspire.

The 18th chapter of Matthew begins with the disciples asking Jesus, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” Jesus replies by embracing a child and saying, “Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest.”

The disciples are also told that God cares about straying sheep and rejoices when one is found. “It is not the will of your Father in heaven that even one of these little ones should be lost,” Jesus says in the verse immediately preceding today’s passage.

And immediately after the passage, Jesus warns Peter that forgiveness cannot be calculated. As one commentary says, God does not keep a scorecard of rights and wrongs, and neither can we. The chapter ends with a warning that we cannot fully embrace God’s forgiveness until we have forgiven others.

Seen in this context, perhaps we can see this difficult passage is more about forgiveness than discipline and condemnation – that shunning is never a sign of grace, but a sign of failure and brokenness.

Jesus tells us in this passage that when we are the injured party, we should seek out the person we think has wronged us and initiate reconciliation.

“We have no right to nurse our grudges, whine about our wounds, and resist efforts at healing,” one commentator on this passage says. “We are to take the first step, to risk the engagement that can lead to a restored relationship.

“Forgiveness never happens by default. It occurs in the risky encounter between the alienated parties.”

Jesus is also saying here that the church should be a community where forgiveness and reconciliation are paramount. We are not to gloss over the conflicts and breaches that inevitably occur in any community, but are to work always to restore and heal broken relationships.

That can be hard work. Sometimes it can be the work of a lifetime. But it is what we are called as Christians to do.

Amen.

Tricia's Sermon for August 31, 2008

"From Hero to Goat"
by The Rev. Patricia Templeton

Last week’s hero is this week’s goat.

Last Sunday we heard Peter, the first-called of all the disciples, praised for correctly answering Jesus’ question, “Who do you say that I am?”

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God,” Peter quickly blurts out.

“Blessed are you!” Jesus praises Peter. “For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.”

And then Jesus tells Peter he is the rock upon which the Church will be built, and that he will hold the keys to God’s kingdom.

Pretty heady praise and power for a former fisherman.

But Peter’s glory doesn’t last long.

We heard today the very next scene in scripture, where Jesus tells the disciples he is going to Jerusalem, where he knows he will undergo great suffering and death.

Peter is appalled at this grim prediction. “God forbid it, Lord!” he cries out to Jesus. “This must never happen to you!”

Peter’s protest seems perfectly appropriate. If your friend and teacher, the one you had left everything to follow, suddenly declared to you that he was on his way to a city where he knew people were waiting to torture and kill him, wouldn’t you try to stop him? Why walk into a situation like that when you can turn around and walk away?

Who wouldn’t react as Peter does?

But Jesus is not touched by Peter’s concern for his safety.

“Get behind me, Satan!” he harshly rebukes Peter. “You are a stumbling block to me: for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Suddenly, Jesus and Peter are on opposite sides. The disciple who moments earlier received a special revelation from God is now mired in a human way of thinking. The one specially blessed by Jesus is now called Satan by him. The rock on which the church is to be built suddenly turns out to be a stumbling block.

Why? What does Peter do wrong? What is his sin? All he did was protest Jesus’ statement that he must suffer and die. All he did was say that there must be some other way to be the Messiah, some way that doesn’t include pain and death.

Peter’s cry sounds exactly like the response that any loving friend would make. But as far as Jesus is concerned, the voice that he hears is that of Satan, the one who tempted him in the wilderness after his baptism.

Three times the devil tried to tempt Jesus, and three times Jesus resisted.

And then, scripture says, the devil departs from Jesus “until a more opportune time.”

What more opportune time could there be to tempt Jesus than when he is facing his own suffering and death? The real temptations in life are not to do the things that are obviously wrong or bad, but to do things that on the surface appear to be good.

We can assume from the harshness of Jesus’ reply that Peter’s offering of an alternative to suffering and death must be a real temptation to Jesus.

Peter, like the tempter in the wilderness, is offering Jesus a way out, a detour around Jerusalem with all its risks of pain and death. And for a moment, perhaps, the possibility seems real and desirable to Jesus.

That is when he snaps and cries, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Then Jesus tells the rest of the disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

One of my favorite preachers, Barbara Brown Taylor, says that what troubles her most about this passage is this:

“Does Jesus mean that all of us who pray to be delivered from suffering and death are on the side of Satan, and that the side of God is reserved only for those who are ready and willing to die?

“Does he mean that all of us who want to be on God’s side had better go out and get ourselves killed as soon as possible?”

Of course that is not what Jesus intends. What he means is not that God wants us to seek out suffering and death, but that our fear of those things may rob us of life.

“Fear of death can turn into fear of life, into a stingy, cautious way of living that is not life at all,” Taylor says. “The deep secret of Jesus’ hard words is that the way to have abundant life is not to save it, but to spend it, to give it away, because life cannot be shut up and saved.”

I think of my grandmother who had drawers full of beautiful clothes, tablecloths and linens that had never been used. She didn’t want to get them dirty because she was saving them for a special occasion, she said.

When she died all those beautiful things were still in her drawers, still pristine and unopened, unused and unenjoyed.

Peter wants Jesus to live like that. He wants to preserve Jesus’ life, find a way for him to be the Messiah without getting dirty, without taking risks.

Peter, like most of us, misses the final point of what Jesus says to his disciples.

Listen to the beginning of today’s gospel reading again. “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering and be killed, and on the third day be raised.”

Peter doesn’t notice that after the suffering and death there is life again, for Jesus and for all of us.

“You never get that far if you let suffering and death throw you off track,” Taylor warns. “If you let your fear of those things keep you from sticking your neck out, from taking the risks that make life worth living.

“You can try to save your own life. You can try to stockpile it, being very, very careful about what you say yes to; being very, very cautious about whom you let into your life, frisking everyone at the door and letting only the most harmless people inside; and being very, very wary about going out yourself, venturing forth only under heavy guard and ready to retreat at the first sign of trouble.

“You can live that way, but don’t expect to enjoy it very much, or to accomplish very much, and do not expect to be missed when your safe, comfortable life finally comes to an end and no one notices you are gone.”

Jesus is not urging us all to be daredevils.

But he is telling us that there are things more important than safety and comfort; there are risks worth taking; that life is to be lived, not wrapped in plastic and put in a drawer; and that even when our lives here run out God will have more life for us, because our God is a God who never runs out of life.

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me,” Jesus says.

These words are ultimately not an invitation to follow Jesus into death, but an invitation to follow him into life.

Amen.