All Saints Day on Austin's Greenbelt--Thursday, November 1st at 6:30pm

Come gather in the woods of Austin's Greenbelt at nightfall for a solemn, yet celebratory remembrance of saints past and present. There will be Holy Eucharist, Poetry, and Music by Local Artists.

Stay afterwards for HOME BREWED BEER & Soul Cakes!

Look for us On the Meditation Trail at Saint Mark's Episcopal Church, 2128 Barton Hills Drive, Austin, Texas 78704

Or you can RSVP here: http://www.facebook.com/events/111764168982616/

An Age Disenchanted

Here is a link to a post on Episcopal evangelism for rising generations. I wrote it for my buddy's new project which will be exploring creative new ministries being done by churches across the country. Enjoy!

http://www.boatswithoutoars.com/2012/05/2-chronicles-714-if-my-people-who-are.html

Jeremiah

Where is God when it hurts?

Julius von Bismarck

Many Christians and people who grow up in a predominately Christian culture learn from a young age to associate suffering and tragedy with sin. While these things can be related, they often aren't. Views linking sin and suffering are popularized each time a natural disaster occurs and some religious figure goes on TV blaming [enter fashionable vilified sin here]. Naturally, such teachings predispose people to look for someone or something to blame, whenever things go wrong. After all, “Someone must have done something to deserve this.” But occasionally, even for those with this mindset, the magnitude or seeming-randomness of a tragedy is so great that we are left to blindly grapple for ways of making sense of things. In such instances, it’s not uncommon for people to conclude that God allowed a hardship for purposes unseen or to teach some kind of lesson. Such cosmological/theological postulations have always bothered me, striking me as cruel, if true, but, more likely, as nonsensical and possibly “magical” thinking. What’s more, as a hospital chaplain and intern at a local parish, I’ve learned that many others share these struggles.   

Julius von Bismarck

Over the years, I have tried sorting through these matters, in hopes of making sense of how the world really works (and I still am!). I have taken notice of all the connected implications necessary for holding together a world view in which God directly authors such calamities. An example of this is, “how or whether God intervenes in the day-to-day affairs of our world and lives?” Also, “if God does intervene, how often and in what ways and for what reasons?” Making sense of such questions and how they relate to our overall conceptualization of God, creation, and what it means to be human, are at the very core of any discussion about the nature of suffering and evil. In his book, Raging with Compassion, theologian John Swinton wrestles with our framing of these perennial questions, as he seeks to formulate both a theologically orthodox and practically-based understanding of how humans experience suffering. He begins by posing the following thoughts, which I will use as spring board for my own exploration:  “Life is not fully comprehensible, controllable, or fixable. We constantly find ourselves as individuals, as communities, as nations, forced to live with unanswered questions. Where is God when it hurts?”[1]

Julius von Bismarck

When religious figures attribute blame to specific causes of their conjuring, they never do so in a vacuum. They do so from a perspective shaped by their own theological views and socially-derived perspective. For instance, a stereotypically liberal pastor might cite our nation’s involvement in a war or unjust economic practices as the underlying culprit, while their conservative counterpart might blame abortion or homosexuality. The philosophical trend of post-modernism has done wonders for increasing our capacity to critically self-reflect, resulting in the raising of our own awareness of the biases/assumptions we hold. At the heart of these attempts to assign blame lie our desires to uncover meaning and re-establish a sense of control. We think, “If I can just pinpoint what happened here, I can prevent it from happening to me (or repeating).” But as Swinton points out with the example of his neighbors’ eleven-year-old daughter, who suddenly and unexplainably dropped dead one afternoon on her way home from playing with friends, it is impossible to anticipate, make sense of, or assign blame with some tragedies.[2] Cases like these (and any number of other cruel happenings) are what inspire the so-called question of “Theodicy.” Theodicy refers to the problem of why a good and loving God, who is all-powerful, allows evil in the world. Or as David Hume so eloquently puts it:

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then God is impotent. Is God able to prevent evil, but now willing? Then God is malevolent. Is God both willing and able to prevent evil? Then why is there any evil in the world.”[3]   

Swinton’s response to theodicy is to question our framing of things. He asserts that our present approach to such matters stem from post-Enlightenment assumptions of humanity’s ever ascending progress and its penchant for analyzing and breaking down problems, resulting in a world demystified.[4] In other words, our current perception that all problems are solvable (which he points out have only been reinforced be modern medical advances), leads us to conclude that all suffering, in and of itself, is evil that should be eradicated, whenever possible.[5] In times prior to the Enlightenment, Swinton says suffering was largely an accepted part of life, albeit no less painful. Rather than seeing it as a, “metaphysical problem needing a solution, [suffering was seen as] a practical challenge requiring a response.”[6] The relatively recent shift towards seeing suffering as surmountable has, according to Swinton, resulted in today’s philosophical conundrum of theodicy. Here, Swinton makes his most profound point, arguing that, “Theodicy should not be understood as a series of disembodied arguments designed to defend God’s love, goodness, and power.”[7] He sees modern, philosophical endeavors that engage these matters as guilty of mistakenly conjuring an “ahistorical, “free-floating,” abstracted notion of god. [8] Rather than conceiving of God as a specific entity, made known in the Christian religion, philosophers view God as an ontological challenge to be proven or disproven. Swinton’s point is significant because theodical endeavors necessarily involve cosmological concerns like the nature of evil and purpose of creation.   

Such connections become apparent when pondering specific tragedies, such as when a person is diagnosed with cancer or the aftermath of a hurricane. Traditionally, theologians speak of such destructive events by labeling them as “evils.” Classical theology then divides evils into two categories: moral evils, which are caused by human action or inaction and natural evils, which have nothing to do with humans, but happen as byproducts of the world simply being as it is.[9] In recent decades, making such distinctions has become ever more complex and blurred, as advances in science and medicine are taken into consideration. For instance, if a chronically depressed person suffering from a significant chemical imbalance commits suicide, was this a manifestation of moral evil or natural evil? Because so many problems can now be traced back to physiological factors, categorizing such occurrences can be tricky. Swinton’s response is to question the helpfulness of making such distinctions. Instead, he calls us to reconsider the relatively recent notion that all suffering is evil.[10]      

Importantly, Swinton reminds us of the classical Christian understanding that sees creation and the whole of existence as created, sustained, and loved by God. The brokenness of this world, which we experience as sin, tragedy, and suffering, are seen as unintended and therefore in need of fixing. Because God is loving and non-derelict Creator, Christians trust that God is reconciling the world back into wholeness, in accordance with God’s goodness and loving nature.[11] Herein lays the key to Christian hopefulness about the future—our sense, which if firmly tethered in scripture, that creation will one day be restored to its fullness. From this foundation, Swinton suggests that, although “Suffering is always tragic,” it needn’t necessarily always be considered evil.[12]

While some tragedies wrought by sinful wrongdoing can be labeled “evil” (think shooter at Virginia Tech, for instance), it’s much harder for many people today to call the shifting of tectonic plates (aka. an earthquake) evil. Seen in this light, such events, which often cause destruction and suffering on mass scales, are more accurately attributable to natural, scientifically understood processes. Similarly, when an elderly person dies from the natural, physical degeneration that takes place over time or a young woman experiences a miscarriage, such events, while not any less painful, are natural occurrences and therefore not evil. As such, for one to scrutinize these types of events expecting to uncover sin or wrongdoing as an underlying cause is to participate in a hunt for that which is not there (and potentially abuse the subject of such scrutiny). Now that I have accounted for what evil is not, let us move to consider what evil is.    

Swinton argues that natural events like earthquakes or even sudden, unexplainable, but medically possible deaths, while not inherently evil, can become so, if they evoke an insurmountable wedge between those suffering and their sense of meaning and hope. For Christians, meaning and hope come from their relationship with God, so experiences that take us from our ability to know God’s providential care and who we are as beloved creatures are evil.[13] To illustrate this, Swinton recalls a story of a 24 year-old woman who committed suicide after having endured a lifetime of sexual abuse by her father and brother.[14] The abuse she suffered resulted in her inability to see herself as a person of worth, dignity, or hope. Similarly, in cases where religious leaders scrutinize a person going through a painful, but natural hardship, when their efforts ultimately push that person away from their faith, one could view their interventions as evil. (Having experienced this firsthand and having met several patients through my work as a hospital chaplain who have undergone similar experiences, I can attest to the potential damage such theological views can inflict). The question remains then, “How, in such cases of natural suffering, can we make sense of such events, while leaving room for a God who still loves and providentially cares for this world?”

echoes of Job?

To begin to answer this, we must return to a foundational tenet of the Christian religion, which claims that the whole of creation is a product (or emanation) of God’s creative and boundless love. If we believe that God brought the cosmos into being, from nothing (ex nihilo), then everything exists by God’s will—even those parts that would be easy to overlook. Christians describe God’s love as principally within God, between the Three Persons of the Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). Love, in this sense, is a mutual gifting/sharing of generative power. This love, therefore, is inherently relational in nature and applies to God’s relationship with creation. Similarly, as beings created in God’s image, we have a choice in whether or not to reciprocate God’s love. For us to have this capacity, an inbuilt vulnerability must exist within created order. We are free to reject God, after all. This vulnerability, when considered alongside the notion that humans are spiritual beings (made in God’s image), reveals the presence of a certain frailty and finitude that we exist within. Or as Swinton puts it, “Creation is fragile because it is underpinned by divine love.”[15]  

If we accept the above narrative and descriptions of evil and suffering, then our response becomes what is important. Swinton contends, “The problem with evil is not so much its existence, as our response to its existence.”[16] Furthermore, if we recognize that one can be party to evil, without knowingly participating (such as purchasing something derived by exploitative or ill-gotten means), then it becomes ones duty to try and root out such evils from one’s life. In other words, our response, as Christians, should be to resist evil in both its personal and systemic forms. When considering how to respond to suffering not caused by evil, we return to Swinton’s effort to ground the theodical conversation in particularity, namely the Christian conception of God. To do so, we look to God’s most visible revelation as seen in the person of Jesus Christ for illumination.[17] In Christ we find countless examples of standing against evil, in his bearing witness against injustices, his gift of presence with the suffering, and, ultimately, in his death on the cross. Jesus’ love was demonstrable, gratuitous, and undiscriminating. In his life, message, and deeds, we find a selfless giving, grounded in compassion and concern for the other. As followers of Christ, we see that even in cases of natural suffering, we are to respond with compassion, to strengthen such persons against loss of hope or meaning.

    

On the whole, Swinton’s response that we have misconstrued the whole theodical enterprise rings true enough, as I appreciate the room he leaves for mystery. The temptation to analyze and pin down every facet of the Universe is truly great, especially when involving something we perceive as a threat, but such endeavors are likely to prove disappointing in the end. For this reason, I concur with Swinton’s pragmatic, “What matters, is our response” outlook. Such a perspective does justice to the calling of Christians to live faithfully, without regard for our chances for success. In this sense, and after the likeness of our head, Christ Jesus, the Church, as a whole, is called to martyrdom. By this I mean we are to give our lives or give (gift) with our lives, rather than having them taken. As such, we should ask, “What beauty and moments thereof can we help to create/participate in?” Rather than acting in self-protective ways, pointing to the failures of others as a means for making ourselves feel safe and in control, we ought to live with aims of glorifying the One who makes all things possible. In this way, we can act with redemptive congruence to God’s own actions, helping to bring others into our story of hope and restorative healing.     

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[1] Swinton, John. Raging with Compassion: Pastoral Responses to the Problem of Evil, (Grand Rapids, William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2007), 3.

[2] Ibid, 9-10.

[3] David Hume, “Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding,” in Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. Norman Kemp Smith (London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1947), 66.

[4] John Swinton, Raging with Compassion, 32-33.

[5] Ibid, 39.

[6] Ibid, 35.

[7] Ibid, 4.

[8] Ibid, 40-41.

[9] Ibid, 50-51.

[10] Ibid, 52.

[11] Ibid, 53.

[12] Ibid, 52.

[13] Ibid, 59-60.

[14] Ibid, 61.

[15] Ibid, 66.

[16] Ibid, 48.

[17] Ibid, 67-68.

Not Quite What You'd Think

Sermon on Mark 11:1-11, 14:1-11, and Philippians 2:5-11 (preached at Mosaic Austin 4.01.12)

Growing up, I had many ideas about what life would be like after college. Like many of you, my formative years were dotted by the release of several Michael J. Fox movies. In films like Bright Lights, Big City and For Love or Money, we saw him live out every young professional’s dreams, complete with the slick suits, thin ties, and baguette-sized cell phones. And although I didn’t necessary want those things, I kind of saw them as my unavoidable, eventual destiny.  

But like many of my generation, the world I entered after college was vastly different from that which I had anticipated. After graduation, I waged an 8 month campaign tirelessly researching job possibilities, writing cover letters, tailoring resumes, only to finally settle for a position at a call center, where my only solace became the fact that “at least I didn’t have to make outbound calls!” And I say all this recognizing that I was one of the lucky ones… I actually got to go to college!

These past few years, we’ve seen lots of stories in the news about how, for the first time in U.S. history, the economic outlook for rising generations won’t be as bright as that of their parents. At the same time, many who thought their retirement was near have suddenly found their nest eggs swallowed up. This past fall, we witnessed the fallout from these trends in the several Occupy movements around the country. To say that there has been a prevailing sense of discontent and dissolutionment, feels understated. But whether you’ve been touched by these forces or not, we all know the sting of watching expectations linger unfulfilled.

In tonight’s Gospel, we encounter many who felt a similar disappointment. Today, in the Church calendar, we celebrate both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday—both Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and the dramatic happenings of Christ’s passion…. Together they act as a hinge, or bridge, moving us from Lent into Holy Week. As the narrative unfolds, we see many who struggle to see past their own ideals and expectations for who Jesus is.  

First, we find this in Jesus’ grand procession through the city gates. Undoubtedly, the crowds who gathered there had heard of Jesus’ many great deeds – of how he healed people, cast out demons, and even raised some from the dead! Maybe they’d even heard of his affinity for common people—of how he regularly dined with the poor and others lowly status. In Jesus, they saw a potential way out… someone who could save them from their Roman captors. Remember, Rome had swept through this entire region, enslaving all. It did so, by brutal means, costing many their lives and leaving those remaining too scared to resist. So, we can understand the crowd’s excitement about this possible hero—a Messiah to come and free them.

But instead, rather than riding in on the white war horse they’d expected, blazing in boldly to rally those willing to join in on this long-awaited coup, in trods Jesus riding a wobbly, practically quivering donkey—a beast of the field, a piece of farm equipment. Their warrior-king had arrived, but instead of brandishing a polished sword, he beseeches them to love their enemies, to turn the other cheek, and to carry the packs of their Roman captors an extra mile… And so, one by one, not hearing what they’d anticipated, the crowd’s enthusiasm deteriorates into murmurs saying, “Crucify him.”

by William Kurelek

Again, we see this pattern play out with the Pharisees and scribes. Blind to the truth and identity of Jesus, they interpret his teachings as a threat to their way of life—and rightly so, we might argue! “Let no man call you father,” and “Beware the scribes, who walk around in long robes and like to be greeted with respect.” That sounds like pretty inflammatory rhetoric! But rather than hearing Jesus’ words as an invitation into a whole new way of leading God’s people, they take offense… and they end up missing what could have been a powerfully redemptive moment… They heard the crowd calling Jesus the Messiah, but THEY had fancy theological educations and thought they knew better. This man wasn’t the Messiah, just a no-good rabble-rouser.

We see this also in those closest to Jesus. Earlier, we heard how upset Jesus’ followers got when the woman with the alabaster jar anoints Jesus. What you may not have caught was that this entire scene unfolds in the home of Simon the Leper. A leper! Here they are, in the very home of someone who undoubtedly lived in poverty because of his illness… and this happens! 

A few years ago, while in India, I actually got to visit a leper colony and see how people with this disease live. As you can imagine, because of their often disfigured bodies and to protect others from catching it, people with leprosy find themselves pushed to the margins. They’re forced to live in isolation; away from their family and friends, without work or any of the amenities they once knew.

So here they are, in this Leper’s home, and in comes this woman who anoints Jesus with oil we are told was very valuable. She does so right in the presence of someone who may well have been destitute. I don’t know about you, but I can kind of see why this would be upsetting. One of them objected saying, “We could have sold that oil and given the money to the poor.” Tradition teaches this was the voice of Judas… the one who later betrays Jesus. Today, as we celebrate Christ’s passion, each of us is asked to examine our own complicity in Jesus’ crucifixion… and, I, for one, am troubled by my own identification with Judas’ outburst. His plea seems reasonable…..

Perhaps this is where you and I begin to find ourselves amongst the crowds gathered at Jerusalem’s gates. Maybe we have all begun to sense the logic in the protests of the Temple officials.

During that period, after college, I began to learn that people don’t always grow up to inherit the lives they feel they’ve been promised. Life can be unfair… tragic even. People get sick or die far too young. Some of us crack under pressure and wind up on the streets. Nation states prioritize their own existence over that of their people, going to war all too easily to protect lines on a map rather than the people who live within those lines. Like the people under Roman rule in the first century, we too suffer. We too want to be saved. And like them, we have our own ideas about what that should look like.   

But, if, as our Gospel teaches, Jesus is one-and-the-same with God the Father, then whenever our agendas fail to align with His, we must ask why… But that’s not easy... And I think it’s here that a lot of us get confused and give up. It’s much easier to hold onto our past conceptualizations of God and who God is, than to allow that vision to be transformed…

Stretching in this way can feel precarious, but we must remember that ours is the God who called Abraham, by faith, to leave his village, his community, and everything he’d ever known, to seek a new land… But that’s not the comfortable choice. It’s easier to continue seeing God through our own lens… to paint Him as a Republican or a Democrat. We try and tune out contradictions, rather than pulling together as Christ’s body and putting our trust in Him. So, like the crowds who petitioned Pilate for Jesus’ execution, we try and conform Jesus to our will. Somehow, each of us instinctively channels the oldest form of chant we inherit from our Christian tradition—that of calling for Jesus’ crucifixion. “Crucify him… crucify him.”

Jesus surprised those in the house of Simon the Leper that day. He permitted the unnamed women to anoint him, and what they saw as a terrible misuse of resources, Jesus saw as the powerful testimony of someone who was actually paying attention… For this woman, to anoint Jesus precisely as he sits at the table of a leper, demonstrates her recognition Christ’s true nature... She knew better than to wait for him to reach for political or militaristic power. She saw his willingness to sit as equals with the powerless, thus lifting them up and enacting a new kind of justice. 

I wonder if we can see past our preconceived notions well enough to follow Christ? How do the stories of his life call us to live differently? I think these are questions Paul is responding to in the epistle we read earlier as a call to worship. He proclaims Christ to be the one who is weak, made strong. The one who humbled himself, taking on our frailty, whom God glorifies. Paul speaks of Jesus’ life, work, and mission as an emptying of himself, becoming obedient even to the point of death on a cross. In these self-giving acts, Paul says, Jesus’ full identity as the Messiah, our anointed savior, is made known! But how do we, as imitators of and participants in Christ live into this? Surely, it’s a lifelong process… one we cannot endeavor alone. Just before the text we read earlier Paul gives his hearers these instructions as a starting point:

“Be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.”                       

Prayer: 

Almighty God, to know you is life, and to serve you is perfect freedom. Give us the will and grace necessary to lay aside our ways… for yours. In the name of your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.  

                                                                     

Cross-shaped Activism

Bread Line

As the 2012 election season gets underway, we Americans, once again, find ourselves facing several major decisions. Up for discussion are brewing tensions with Iran, our nation’s handling of the environment, the economy, abortion, and our country’s treatment of its poor and sick. At stake, are matters of dignity, justice, responsibility, stewardship, and compassion, to name a few. That said, if there’s anything I haven’t the time or energy for it’s another discussion of these matters along typical, partisan lines. Contrary to the media’s framing of these things, I know no one who sees the standard left/right divisions as helpful or effective as means of problem solving. The reduction of issues to two-sided, binaries leaves no place for complexity, flexibility, or thoughtfulness. For us to have any hope of mending these wounds and the rifts they have created, we must break free from such thinking to embrace creative, multidimensional, and loving efforts to cultivate justice. 

Fortunately, for Christians, our faith provides us not only with a rich tradition of theological and ethical discourse to help sort through these issues, but also with an impressive array of saints, past and present, from which to draw inspiration. Believing these resources to be valuable for escaping our culture’s dualistic tendencies, my aim here will be to explore a uniquely Christian means for engaging social and political ills, in hopes of finding helpful avenues that will help as I and other Christians struggle to follow Christ and usher in a world transformed by God’s goodness. Because an endless number of voices and lives could be brought into this conversation, I have chosen to narrow my focus, considering only Pope Benedict XVI’s encyclical entitled, Caritas in Veritate, alongside the courageously compassionate lived example of Dorothy Day.

       

When considering how best to properly address sociopolitical matters, rarely do we hear coverage of these complex challenges exceeding the depth of bumper-sticker-like sloganeering. It’s not uncommon to hear social-critiques and comedians lambasting our nation for its shallowness and lack of forethought. To some, this trend is seen as an outgrowth of today’s largely-secular, postmodern ethos, which distrusts certainty and questions all values as relative to the eye of the beholder. This view argues that, if there is no such thing as “God” or “truth,” there also must not be such thing as a foundational “good” from which to base our actions. Pope Benedict XVI pushes back against this saying, “Without God man neither knows which way to go, nor even understands who he is.”[1] He sees truth as most evident in the person of Jesus, whose life provides a revelatory window into the nature of God.[2] From Jesus’ life and teachings, Benedict extracts a description of God’s nature as “love” adding that, “Everything has its origin in God’s love, everything is shaped by it, everything is directed towards it.”[3] At first glance, this might sound like a fluffy feel-good statement that could easily be brushed aside, but actually, it captures the very essence of Christianity’s understanding of what it means to be both human and creatures of God. Finding our very being in God’s overabundant outpouring of love, we, as made in God’s image, are called upon to embody that same love, sharing it with one another and, ultimately, returning that love to God. It is from this theological premise that we as Christians (and those willing to consider any wisdom Christianity has to offer) can begin to explore how God wills for us to handle social ills like poverty, violence, oppression, and other self-inflicted humanly wounds. 

Here, it is helpful to consider the lives and examples of inspiring, dedicated Christians from ages passed. One such exemplar is Dorothy Day, whose work in the early 1900’s brought about the establishment of hundreds of Catholic Worker groups who run soup kitchens, houses of hospitality, and other endeavors serving the impoverished, outcast, and downtrodden. One year, one of these houses of hospitality gave out 460,000 meals and 18,250 nights lodging, alone![4] Dorothy’s inspiration came from the life and message of Jesus Christ—most notably from the words of Matthew 25:31-46 and in the Sermon on the Mount.[5] She saw these passages as the clearest path for obeying the two commandments Jesus identified as greatest:  Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind and love your neighbor as yourself.[6] Dorothy strove to embody these words by seeing Christ in people she encountered day after day.[7] This highlights a key ideological difference underpinning her rationale for serving those in need and the motivations propelling more conventional political/labor groups. 

Whereas groups like the AFL and CIO sought change on the basis of “enlightened self-interest,” Dorothy’s motivation sprang from religious zeal to follow Christ’s example, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and generally trying to uplift the downtrodden.[8] She recognized the presence of the Holy in those she met. For instance, Dorothy believed such a vision of others was the only effective means for convince the wealthy not to treat their workers as chattel, but with respect, honor, and due pay.[9] In her writings, we see the inner yearnings a person continually working to remind herself that people are never just mouths to feed or bodies to be housed, but creatures of God with bodies and souls. Such reflections brought joys as well as hardships. One time, she took in a homeless man, feed him, gave him a place to stay, and tried to help him find work, only to discover when he left that her valuables had been stolen.[10] In places, she wrestles with what it means to see Christ, not just in the downtrodden, but in the corporate executives and politicians responsible for suffering of others. This facet reveals the communal dimension Dorothy saw as relevant to this endeavor. She recognized not only the inter-related affects of people’s actions, but also the need for accountability this truism in infers. 

Such a claim has broad ramifications when we consider the cost embodying such Christ-like love demands. Whether considering a possible war, making cuts to social safety nets, or our handling of environmental concerns, Christ’s calling for us to care for the least among us requires that we go deeper than our present two-dimensional structure allows. We must discern our dealings with Christ-inspired compassion. If this sounds laborious or grim, fear not. If Pope Benedict XVI’s earlier description of God’s nature as love is true and it is true that humans were created to share in that love, then our task enacting justice via the emulation and embodiment of Christ’s love runs congruent with our created nature and will therefore be experienced as a deep, abiding joy. In fact, Benedict goes as far as to describe this task as our “vocation” and as “planted [in us] by God.”[11] We see evidence of this joy in the hundreds, if not thousands of people who have found inspiration in Dorothy’s work, joining in to contribute where they could. Such a dynamic points to a truth that, whether convincing to today’s postmodern sensibilities or not, has brought about many compelling acts of generosity and enabled much transformation.   

As attested to by Dorothy’s many accomplishments towards these ends, Benedict describes this “love” we are called to be about as, “an extraordinary force which leads people to opt for courageous and generous engagement in the field of justice and peace.”[12] There is a going-the-extra-mile quality to this kind of love that seems contagious. As such, there is an inherently evangelistic component to love’s nature. God’s ever-abundant love spills over to us, which we, in turn, spill onto others—it’s an endless cascade. Love is a sending force, necessitating our action or follow through. It shatters binaries, thin descriptions, and clichéd political jargon. When grounded in the self-giving nature of Christ, which is our truest icon for seeing and knowing the Trinitarian God, love is much more than warm emotion. It is a force that compels us to become our brother’s keepers. If this sounds triumphant or grandiose, let us not forget that Christ’s trajectory ultimately ended in failure. As Dorothy points out, Christ was crucified for his radical behavior. Although we as Christians know of his resurrection and ultimate glorification, taking comfort in the knowledge that, one day, we too will share in this promise, we would be wise to admit the immediate realities making such stands is likely to elicit.   

So, how can Christians can engage the needs of the world while dismissing fallacious premises embedded within our culture’s construal of these matters? We can start by recognizing how things are often framed as either/or, but should, in actuality, be both/and. When politicians describe peace as only possible by way of threatening military force, we can offer another vision. When we are told we cannot simultaneously have a free and prosperous economy and protection from harmful pollutants, we can call into question such assumptions. When the abortion issue is reduced to Pro-Life or Pro-Choice, we can expand the conversation. Like Dorothy, we must challenge ourselves to live into the example set by Christ. We must be willing to “love to the point of folly.”[13] Was Jesus’ instruction to turn the other cheek simply metaphorical? When he says feed the hungry, did he mean only giving our money towards such aims? What about loving our enemies?  Referencing Matthew 25, Dorothy recalls the words of St. John of the Cross who said, “Love is the measure by which we shall be judged.”[14] We are called to recognize Christ in each other and serve each other accordingly. Such acts should spring forth naturally as outgrowths of our love for God. We are to be fools for Christ. Such sacrifices will cost us, as was true for Christ, but these pains will not be met without reward and, ultimately, our glory is found in oneness with God the Father.  

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[1] Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas and Veritate, 50.

[2] Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas and Veritate, 2.

[3] Ibid, 2.

[4] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, ed. Robert Ellsberg, (Maryknoll, Orbis Books, 2010), 104.

[5] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 97.

[6] Matthew 22:37-39

[7] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 248.

[8] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 242.

[9] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 242.

[10] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 99.

[11] Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas and Veritate, p.2

[12] Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas and Veritate, p.2

[13] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings, 99.

[14] Dorothy Day, Dorothy Day: Selected Writings,  265.

Caught amidst the Consumption

A Sermon in honor of Saint Matthias' feast day, February 24

Like a scene from a bad horror film, Matthias found himself in a dark, cellar-like room, chained in place by the ankles, surrounded by the zombie-like groans of men and women too drugged up to realize they’d been captured. Light from a doorway spilled into the room as two guards entered from the side. They began stooping over, checking the tags on the wrists of all the prisoners. “Oh, here he is,” one of them said, to which the other replied, “Mmm… a nice, plump one.” They then heaved their victim onto a cart while tossing recipe ideas back and forth. 

Finding himself a prisoner in a dungeon in Mirmidonia, a city known for its cannibalism, you might be surprised to learn Matthias had not been driven mad with fear. There he was, in the very pit of despair, the captive of a most heinous society, and yet Matthias possessed a quiet confidence. Upon being seized, he had called out to the Lord and the Lord answered him promising his eventual escape to safety, after 27 days... As the guards left and the door swung to a close, darkness once again fell across the room… Sitting there, waiting in the bleak shadows, he drew hope from the promise of one day setting foot in the sunlight, again.
    

Apocryphal lore tells us that the Apostles cast lots to divvy up regions for going out and spreading the Gospel. The lot to go and evangelize the city of cannibals, fell to Matthias. This was his second great twist of fate by such means. His first landed him as the 12^th apostle, replacing Judas, as we heard in today’s reading from Acts. In fact, little is actually known of St. Matthias, except for this.

We know he met the criteria laid out by Peter for Judas’ replacement, which means he must have been a follower of Jesus from the time of Jesus’ baptism by John to his death, resurrection, and ascension. From this we can gather that the remaining apostles must have considered it important that their newest colleague had witnessed Jesus’ entire life and ministry. Also, there must have been a sense that Judas’ successor needed to be strong where he had been deficient. We know this weighed on their minds because Peter recounts Judas’ fate, before their selection of candidates. 

In today’s Acts passage, we learn what Judas did with his ill-gotten winnings.  He had purchased a field, on the outskirts of Jerusalem, apparently intending to spend his remaining days forging a livelihood from the land – not a wholly un-noble sounding endeavor. Judas’ hunger for independence and security, his retirement plan, if you will, seemed like reasonable aims, until we consider the acts they drove him to… Rather than depending on the welfare of strangers as Jesus had taught, he tried to secure his life by the sweat of his brow – an impulse we, too, no doubt feel. In trying to pluck his fate from God’s hand—in his break from Christ and Christ’s community—we see the first appearance of schism in the Church born from such a seemingly reasonable impulse.

Matthias, then, presents us with a portrait, of a life wholly given over to his Lord. By meeting Peter’s requirements we know he had spent years journeying by Jesus’ side, most likely, at great personal sacrifice. And not unlike like the friends I used to have who would tour the country following bands like the Grateful Dead or Phish, such nomadic ways weren’t likely profitable, not even in 1^st century Judea. Also, during those years, he stuck by faithfully even though he never wore the fancy title “apostle.” Holding fast to what he had attained, Matthias exemplifies both humility of spirit and dedication, as is so well captured by the story of his mission to the cannibals.

And like his time in Mirmidonia, we too find ourselves in a culture seemingly caked in unhealthy consumption, promoting concern for self over the interests of others. We too are tasked with bearing witness to the risen Christ in a culture that would rather continue withering in its ways of death. 

This Lent, if we find ourselves (as I have so many times) feeling as if we are counting down the days until the Light returns, let us take heart in the witness of brother Matthias, who reminds us that, truly, as members of Christ’s body, our strength can come from recognizing our weaknesses… our need for one another... and for fidelity to Christ. And as John reminds us in today’s Gospel, our strength to glorify God, bearing fruit in due season, comes not from our own wills, but by abiding in our common foundation as branches on Christ’s vine. So let us, therefore, cling onto that which God has grafted us, that we might bear fruit, like Matthias, in Christ’s name.   

Born In The Wrong Era

So many lives cast in limbo, walking public roadways between parcels of fenced off private property.

Rounded up, boxed out, with beautiful country all around, but each fleeting bend lies just out of reach.

Evening strolls dictated by green-eyed men in cahoots with county bureaucrats wielding fabricated barriers.

Could one think of a more heinous plot?

And all this without more than a scare murmur of discontent.