Saturday, December 24, 2016

Come, come, whoever you are: A Christmas homily

In a clergy discussion group the question of the Christmas homily came up. The question was this: How do we talk about a story that has been told again and again, year after year and is so familiar it seems difficult to speak of it in a new way? The question itself reveals that we are products of our culture; especially the Christmas culture. If it is not new or original or catchy, or flashy, or have a spin, or promise to make us feel better in some way we are not terribly interested. We preachers feel as though we must respond to a culture that says, Surprise me.

But the answer to the question does not lie in a grand retelling of Christ birth narrative. The preachers’ work is to transmit the core of the biblical meta-narrative, not tell the story. The story has already been told. And that meta-narrative does not change over time. And it cannot be improve upon. Nor can it be added to or parts of it removed. It is central and stable and unmoving. The meta-narrative is an invitation to return to the source of all things, return to God.  Preachers are much less storytellers as we are the re-issuers of the invitation. And the invitation is sent out again and again. Preachers remind the church and the world of God’s invitation to be open to and in communion with the Godhead because it is not just the uninitiated or unaffiliated but Christians themselves who are not always in communion, even though they may profess to be so. We know well when we have lost our way. And we do so with regularity. And we know when it is time to come home. And so the invitation is sent out repeatedly, week after week, day after day, hour after hour, and minute by minute by an army of preachers bearing the scrolls of stories, and proclamations of good news and forgiveness, and promises of grace and the assurance of the gift of unending, unconditional love. 

That is what the Christmas story is, in the final analysis; a grand invitation, the mother of all invitations (pun intended). This night, through song and word, in the reading of the holy and ancient texts, and in the offering of the sacraments are extended various incarnations of invitation.
This invitation to return was very beautifully put into verse by Rumi the 13th-century Persian, Sunni, Muslim poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. Rumi's influence transcends national borders and ethnic divisions. When he died in 1273 he was mourned by Christians and Jews, as well as Muslims and Buddhists. Given that it was the Persian wise men, the Mystics from the East that saw the star and followed it to the stable to greet the newborn King lying in a manger, makes them part of the story. The wise men recognized the invitation and they accepted. They came bearing gifts and paid homage to the newborn King.

Rumi’s poem, a fitting reflection for us this night, is this: 
“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”
Captured here is the eternal call of God to God’s people, Come, come, whoever you are. It includes the wanderer and the worshipper, the lovers of leaving - we are, each one of us, all of those things, wanderers, worshippers (of something) and lovers of leaving. 

When I first read this I was moved to tears. Who among us as not broken our vows. Not the vows that bind us on earth, but the vows between us and our God. The holy texts tell us that we were known intimately by God while we were in our mother’s womb; in the silent world before we knew our mothers we knew only God. There we were formed and shaped and came to have our being. We are wonderfully made. God was with us all the while. But what do we recall of the timeless time before we were born into time? Time alone is counting the seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years we have believed ourselves separated from God. The invitation is to return by remembrance. Remember who you are. 

One of the parts of the prayer over the sacraments in preparation of Holy Communion is the prayer of remembrance. We remember the story of the last supper, the institution of the sacraments, and we are invited into the body through that remembrance. Worship has many kinds of invitations. It is a complex dance with many doors through which we enter to remember. 

The stories we tell are not a caravan of despair. That Jesus was born into scandal is not a story of despair. That the Christ child was born into the most humble, if not difficult of circumstances, is not a story of despair. That Jesus was marked for death at birth by the powers and principalities that ruled over the land is not a story of despair. The shadow of the cross that proceeds our telling of the Good News in Jesus the Christ is not born of despair. It is a proclamation of invitation. 

It does not matter how far you have wandered, what trouble you are in, or how deep your despair. It does not matter with whom you have consorted or followed or pledged loyalty. It doesn’t matter who you betrayed or what you have done, or worse still, all the things you failed to do or left undone. The wounds you did not bind. The hungry you did not feed. The angels you dismissed. Not one of us can claim a clean ticket. It does not matter. If it did, the story would be empty of its power; the invitation would be invalid. There can be no exceptions. It does not matter. You are invited to return, you are invited to remember to whom you belong and for what reason. You have only forgotten.


“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”

Sunday, December 11, 2016

What are you leaving out?

The spiritual life is often driven by the question: What’s missing? The quest to answer that question often leads people back to church or to pick up reading spiritual authors to fill what is perceived as a void. It doesn’t seem to matter if life and the daily calendar are full or if life is less filled with activity. Something just seems to be missing - there is a longing to be a part of the thing that is bigger that we are; that indescribable thing that we can no more grasp then mist or water. There is something that is calling our attention and we both desire to follow to see where it leads and distracted by many things. 

Jesus addresses this quest when he addresses the crowd remembering to them their time with John in the wilderness. He asks them What did you think you would find there? In three different ways he asks them this question: What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? What then did you go out to see? and again, What then did you go out to see? When we are seeking something that we think is missing or to put something back that has been lost we are paying close attention. That is the task of the spiritual life - to pay close attention. 

There was once a Buddhist student who had been living in a monastery praying and studying to become enlightened for many years. The time came that he was done with his work there and was preparing to leave. When he came to meet with the master on the day of his departure it was raining. He left his umbrella outside the door and went in. In the course of their talk the master asks the man, What side of the door did you put your umbrella the right or the left? The man did not know.  He returned to his studies and to the life of prayer for another ten years. 

The necessity of giving each moment in life our full attention cannot be understated. It is because we do not yet know the value of this attentiveness and that the kingdom of God is with us, yet hidden from us that we go on spiritual journeys and seek to find what is with us and has never not been available to us. Our searching gives us away. Jesus speaks from that in-between place, whispering to us: What have you come to see?

John Shea speaks of our lack of attention to the things that call to us in the spiritual realm through the metaphor of the parable of the seed that is scattered on the ground: 
The seed that falls by the side of the road and is devoured by the birds means we do not have the time or inclination to entertain the teachings of Jesus. The side of the road is not the middle of the road, the place where we normally walk. If we would consider the seeds, we would have to alter our routine, step outside the way we work But this does not happen because the devouring birds do not allow it. The devouring birds are symbols of our inattention to the seed, our failure to heed and consider what we have heard. The seed of the word is given no chance. As soon as it lands, it is taken away. The Gospel interpretation is that these birds are like the devil. The devil, diabolos, does what his name signifies. He breaks things apart. When we are this first soil, there is a brief contact with the Word, but no real coming together at all. The seed and the soil are quickly separated. The seed may be a wake-up call, but we turn away and go back to sleep. (Shea, On earth as it is in heaven, 16.)

But sometimes we are roused from our sleep unexpectedly. We are called to attention from some supernatural event in places where the veil is very thin - if we are open to being in that place. 
In Tales of a Magic Monastery, Theophany the Monk tells a story. He is in the House of God and late at night he hears a voice. 
“What are you leaving out?
I looked around. I heard it again.
“WHAT ARE YOU LEAVING OUT?”
Was it my imagination? Soon it was all around me, whispering, roaring, “What are you leaving out? What are you leaving out?” 
Was I cracking up? I managed to get to my feet and head for the door. I wanted the comfort of a human face or a human voice. Nearby was the corridor where some of the monks live I knocked on once cell. 
“What do you want/“ came a sleepy voice.
“What am I leaving out?”
“Me,” he answered. 
I went to the next door. 
“What do you want?”
“What am I leaving out?”
“Me.”
A third cell, a fourth, all the same.
I thought, “They’re all stuck on themselves.” I left the building in disgust. Just then the sun was coming up. I had never spoken to the sun before but I heard myself pleading, “What am I leaving out?” The sun too answered, “Me.” That finished me.
I threw myself on the ground. And the earth said, “Me.”

When we are attentive we see the world as God sees it. Not the world we have created, with all its glitter and bling and the poverty and despair it creates. That is the world of our making. God sees the world that was created in which God finds expression. And it is not the anthropocentric world in which we seat ourselves at the head of the table. The work of the spiritual life is to see the world, the created world through the eyes of God. We cannot see what we are leaving out because, like the monk, we don’t have eyes to see it. We are like children who have built an imaginary world out of Legos. The little blocks and all their various shapes and sizes and the amazement of how they were made and all the possibilities for creating new things drawn us in an away from the ground we are sitting on. God did not create Legos but rather dirt. Dirt does not seem that interesting. But a thoughtful and curious person who turns their attention away from plastic toys might find the microcosm of dirt and all the life held within in and the knowledge that it necessary for all life and that its state of health bears a direct correlation to our own state of health might find it is infinitely more interesting after all. There is more to contemplate in a single dried leaf that has fallen and a single snowflake or a feather found on the ground or an odd shaped rock with shiny flecks or a flock of birds restlessly changing configuration over a dew covered field then all the books that have ever been written. 

Chaim Potak, in The Gift of Asher Lev, wrote: 
My father of blessed memory once said to me, on the verse in Genesis, “And He saw all the He had made and behold it was good.” - my father once said that the seeing of God is not like the seeing of man. Man sees only between the blinks of his eyes. He does not know what the world is like during the blinks. He sees the world in pieces, in fragments. But the master of the universe sees the world whole, unbroken. That world is good. Our seeing is broken, Asher Lev. Can we make it like the seeing of God? Is it possible? 


The quest to see as God sees begins with attentiveness. Of seeing what is there. What did you go out there to see? Jesus asks them. What have you come here to see? I ask you. What is it you hope to find? or to feel? or to realize? or to grab a hold of? or experience? or to take home with you? What is it you are leaving out?

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Good death talk

This Gospel passage we are invited to meditate upon this day (John 17:20-26) is Jesus’ prayer to his Father in heaven regarding his coming death. It signifies his physical death and the coming wave of grief that will knock his followers to their knees. Mary Magdalene will search for his bodily remains only to find an empty tomb.  His death will also signify a transitional event; life transformed – life to life. Furthermore, a gate of understanding about death will open wide for all those who follow in his way.

Today, we are given a teaching about death. And how sorely is the world in need of it. How sorely I am in need of it.

The Book of Common Prayer notes the following regarding the burial service of the Episcopal Church. Within the following words can be found a synthesis of the theology of death that is often described as the great Christian hope.

The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy.  It finds all its meaning in the resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised.     
     
The liturgy, therefore, is characterized by joy, in the certainty that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus or Lord.”

This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian. The very love we have for each other in Christ brings deep sorrow when we are parted by death.  Jesus himself wept at the grave of his friend. So, while we rejoice that one we love has entered into the nearer presence of our Lord, we sorrow in sympathy with those who mourn.

Every year I devote the altar flowers to my sister who died on May 9, 1993. It has been a long time now, 23 years, and in truth if I did not intentionally mark the date of her passing with flowers it is likely this week would come and go without a thought.  But such a ritual helps me remember her and honor her life. It also helps me to remember that her life, like all those who have passed before us, has not ended but has changed. One of my trusted friends in the esoteric world has assured me that Catherine is a strong and abiding presence in my life; a protective influence, as she describes it. Though it is hard for me to realize Catherine in any form other than the one I knew up until she took her last breath. At the time of her passing, when I looked upon her breathless body I knew she was not there. One minute she as there and the next she was absent. And I wondered, Where did she go? I said to her in my mind: Where are you now? Are you in the corner of the ceiling looking down at us crying for you? Do you now have wings so you can fly? Are you in the heavens with God? What is it like where you are?

Since that time, my father, who was also an Episcopal priest, died five years ago. In his moment of passing, I said to myself and to him: Now you know. Now you are on the other side and you know what we cannot know until we come to where you are. Now you know the truth about the faith you proclaimed. Or you simply know what is truth and how far or how near we come to getting it right.

William Shannon, wrote of death in this way: We are one with one another because whatever of us there is that is really worthwhile is from God and in God.  And that is something that death does not and cannot change – though it appears to do so, since we are so accustomed to think of a person solely in terms of her empirical ego. Death is the end of the empirical ego, but not of the person. We are all eternally one in the love of God.”  Theologian John Shea expounded on the idea of spiritual presence verses the “empirical ego” by saying: “In short, we are addicted to physical presence. We want to smell the hair of our children, touch our lover’s hand, look into another’s eyes, and hear human laughter. We cannot imagine presence without the impact of the physical senses. Our consciousness not only dwells on the physical and psychological, it often stops there. So when the spiritual is all we have, we cannot confidently discern it and are highly suspicious of those who say they can…. We really want what we can no longer have. Spiritual presence is second best, a poor substitute for flesh.”

I think he is courageous for having said this. There are a lot of should’s for Christians who grieve. They are the things we know we should feel or appreciate that we can’t reconcile in our moment of despair. There are things we dare not say lest someone think we have abandoned our faith.  Instead we believe: We should be content to know that our loved ones are in a “better place.” We should take consolation in their passing from death into life. We should rejoice in that they are now free. But few of us, are quite there, for quite some time.

Months after the suicide of his son, one of my parishioners in the depths of his inconsolable sorrow suddenly yelled out: I want my son back!  We want them back.

But Shea is confident and persistent in his argument that we can in fact can share in the life of our loved ones once again through the practice of spiritual presence. I cannot say how shocked I was to read his description of this practice from a Roman Catholic theologian.  He roots the practice in Jesus’ words recorded in John’s Gospel: “And I have given them the glory you gave me, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may be brought to perfection as one….”

The practice of spiritual presence is simple really. But it does require that we accept without hesitation that the center of our being is a spiritual reality that is distinct and apart from the body’s that we inhabit.  This should be familiar to you: We are spiritual beings having a human experience. We are not humans having an occasional spiritual experience.  As spiritual beings we have particular capacities which we can develop. Meditation is not a toy or a pillow upon which to rest our heads. It is a tool by which we can, if we wish, hone our spiritual capabilities. Shea goes on to suggest that should we be able to accept that this is our true nature, that we are sovereign beings inextricably connected to God throughout eternity, and not as bound to our physical bodies as we have been taught, then we can begin to focus our attention inwardly; to find our centers. This is the goal of the practice of Centering Prayer, a mediation technique made famous by the contemplative monk Thomas Merton. Shea speaks of centering in this way: “When our consciousness rests in this center, we become aware it is receiving its being and love from elsewhere. It is not its own reality. It is dependent on a larger reality that is filling it from within and encouraging it to connect with other spiritual centers and to share its life with them.” Anyone who has ever sat in meditation for five minutes knows this as truth. In an instant we know that we are more than just our body and our name. I believe that the transition to death must be something like this. I have seen a lot of people die. And I must conclude that I do not think that death snatches us and tears us away from the fabric of the temporal life but rather beckons us to follow and we cannot resist the silent, sublime call of God to return from hence we came.

To reconnect with the ones we love who have passed from this life all we need do is to move from the center of our being into the center of their being. Our imagination is the tool we need to accomplish this. Move your center into their center. And you do not go alone; with you comes the love of God. Shea warns sternly that the only purpose of this activity is to further realize the love of God. This is a very serious spiritual practice and should not be misused.

Beyond reconnecting as companions with loved ones who have passed, the practice of spiritual presence can be applied in day to day life. How often are you asked to pray for someone? Shea describes prayer in this way: “Prayer is a capacity of our consciousness to move beyond the physically imposed boundaries of our skin and enter in the spiritual center of another…. Then we are in them and they are in us, and we are both in Christ, and [God] is in Christ and in us, and the love of God is in and through all….”

I conclude where I began, at the Episcopal burial rite. The opening words are these:
I am Resurrection and I am Life, says the Lord.
Whoever has faith in me shall have life, even though he die.
And everyone who has life… shall not die forever.



Source: The Relentless Widow: The Spiritual Wisdom of the Gospels for Christian Preachers and Teachers, by John Shea, pp. 150-152. 

Monday, March 28, 2016

The Then that is Now

Someone wrote me a word of encouragement recently and began with the word, “then.”  Then you will…. It inferred that then was now, or at least very close to now. Then was not just a point in the future at which, time would press into the now, but rather then supposes the next rung of a ladder. Then, is what’s next in this very moment.

John’s Easter morning gospel is filled with thens. Then Peter and the disciples go to the tomb. Then Simon Peter enters the tomb. Then the beloved disciple believed. Then the disciples return to their homes. Then points to more than just chronological events. Then is a suitcase into which we are packed and unpacked at the empty tomb. Then presses us to accept what is in front of us, not what we hope will be, not what someone has promised us, but simply what is now. 

Then is at the heart of Divine Mystery; the then we know and the then we do not yet know.  To know the unknowable is the paradox of the then that is now.  Theologian C.H. Dodd coined this as “already, but not yet.” If, on this Easter morning, you are not too sure what to think or believe than I can assure you that your faith is therefore sound. The disciples have faced what is known, the Lord has gone, but they do not know. Mary has seen and spoken with the risen Lord and yet she cannot fully know.  There has long been a place in theological discourse for agnosticism. That is, the concession that one does not know beyond the limits of what is known. Knowing and not knowing creates an authentic faith because it reflects the ‘then’ that will surely come, and our inability to return from the grave to give a full report. We believe, but we do not know. I sometimes say of myself, if it weren’t for my skepticism I’d have no faith at all. Another way of getting at this is the turned around phrase: I wouldn’t have seen it if I haven’t of believed it. That is not the same as, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t of seen it.  Do you believe because you have seen? or do you see because you believed?  The assumption is that seeing is believing. But the spiritual life begins from the assumption we cannot see into the mystery of anything unless we possess at least a modicum of faith.

In John Shea’s Easter commentary he tells the following story from one of Rachel Rem’s personal reflections of counseling sessions she had a with a man in the final stages of prostate cancer (My Grandfather’s Blessings, Riverhead Books, 2000, 339-42). In the course of their conversations, he says, “Rachel, I am an educated man. I must believe that death is the end. And you, an educated woman, surely you believe that death is the end also.” But Rachel responds that she does not know. As their sessions continue, the man continues to raise the question and presents strong arguments for his position. However, Rachel stands firm, saying over and over again that she just does not know. At times seriousness of this conversation turns to joking. The man says he will come back from the dead to visit her as a crane. She kids him back that showing up as a great white crane is a little obvious. He agrees and changes it. “I will do something that you will recognize.” One day after he has died, Rachel is thinking about him as she enters an empty elevator. On the floor of the elevator is one large and perfect white feather. She refuses to take the feather as proof of anything. She clings to her agnostic position, but she concludes, “The important thing is that Mystery does happen and offers us the opportunity to wonder together and reclaim a sense of awe and aliveness.”  

Rachel is describing the eternal mystery of Easter: mystery, by definition is a form of not knowing.  Easter is the story of then’s that pull meaning from someone else’s time and place and depositing it into our now.  Then Mary weeps at the empty tomb. Then Jesus appears to her. Then she tells the others. Then we are perplexed. Then we wonder what this can mean. Then we know that death is not the final word. Then we know that we have been redeemed. Then our knowing and not knowing are complete. Easter faith is born anew.  Easter faith is at the heart of every baptism.

This Easter day we welcome Krystal Smith into the Christian faith and into the life of this community. The Celebration of the Pascal Feast has always been a primary day for baptisms. For us all, Easter is a day that invites us to shed the old way of life and make room for the possibility of new beginnings; to watch for stirrings in our spiritual life. Krystal desires to be received into the communion of the faithful and we will this day pledge to support her in her Christian journey. Baptism is ultimately about new life; the dying of self from the ways of the world which weights everything in terms of certainty, into a community that is structured by both knowing and not knowing.  I urge you Krystal to maintain a healthy sense of skepticism - it will keep you wary of the trickery and wickedness of the world and provide a platform upon which you can test your young faith.  I urge you to love without condition. It may seem that skepticism and unconditional love cannot co-exist. But these two things hold together the tension that every Christian comes to understand as the guideposts of discipleship; that is the ways in which we find our way through the world. It expresses our belief that in every person exist the divinity of God; but acknowledges that not everything that people do is Godly.  God is love. And we are called first to live that love. It is not the church that calls you Krystal but Love itself. So you are commanded to love the people who love you as well as those who do not return your love; to love those whom you have never met, and those who have wronged you. This does not mean you must like them or let anyone take advantage of you or hurt you in any way. It does mean that you must understand that they too are on a journey. Their deeds, for good or ill, are not your business. Revenge is not your business. Love is your business. You are only required to balance not knowing with what you know in your heart to be true and to show your love through acts of kindness. It is not always easy. That is why belonging to a community that strives together for the same end will sustain you. Krystal, we welcome you to the community of St. James Episcopal Church, and into the world-wide Anglican Communion and into the household of God established as the Christian Church.


Sunday, January 31, 2016

Mind Games

In this part of the Gospel of Luke Jesus has returned to his hometown to teach and is not particularly well-received. The scene provides an excellent illustration of human nature.  As John Shea points out, each of us has two responses to every single thing we experience: Things are either pleasing or displeasing. We either like something or we don’t. Something is either beneficial or it is harmful. Happenings are good or they are bad. Things are either going our way or not going our way. People are either acting the way we think they should or they are acting counter to our expectations. There are rarely shades of gray for us. We have an internal judge that is pronouncing sentence on every little thing every second.  And in this way we are actually not in command of our own minds. It’s like a computer program is running continuously that we have no control over. We live this way our entire lives and are unable to stop without engaging in a long and devoted spiritual practice. There are people who can help us with this process, authors Michael Singer and Eckert Tolle being two of them. 

Quite truthfully, most of us aren’t too bothered by this dominant dualistic mindset and are not in the least motivated to make it stop. And I want to make clear that to make that choice is neither good nor bad; it simply is what it is. There is something comforting about it letting the mind rule over us. But there are drawbacks; to live in this way prevents us from ever going very deep spiritually. People who live from a very intensely spiritual place accept that the mind is full of tricks and does not really have our best interests at heart; the mind is understood in that way, seen for what it is, and its machinations confidently dismissed. The rest of us, myself included, strive for a kind of compromise: periodic meditation to quiet the mind for even a few brief moments to regain some sanity amidst the insanity that engulfs us as we allow it too.

The Israelites who hear Jesus are were probably pleased by his initial teaching; it likely fit with what they understand about the law. But when the teaching becomes more difficult the tide turns in the other direction; enough to promote them to want to kill him in a rage. Before we get all judgmental about them, let’s recall the ground I just covered.  Things either sit well with us because they go with the flow of our ideals and principles or things rub up against the things we perceive to be important and right – our values. Things either support the tenets of our faith or threaten them.  This is why we have a really hard time hearing what people are saying when we are in stark disagreement with them. They are wrong, we are right. And as long as we are in that place, nothing can change in the relationship; trust is the first casualty when there is no bridge to cross over to get to the other side. We are not above throwing people over cliffs or under buses if they threaten our belief systems. Short of that, we knock the dust off our sandals and move on until we find our tribe, the people who think just like we do. Jesus just got kicked out of his tribe and escaped with his life.

And his escape is fascinating. Imagine the crowd pushing him out of town until his back was against the edge of cliff. Then he suddenly moves through the midst of them and goes his own way.  What did he do exactly? Don’t you wonder? Did he become invisible and walk through them unknown? Did he turn himself into dog in which case no one would notice him? Did he vaporize and re-organize on the other side of town? Perhaps he just used a little magic, suggesting to the crowd: “You will allow me to pass through you free of harm.” And they did. Or maybe he practiced the art of surrender. Maybe he didn’t see their actions as we do therefore he did not respond as we would. What if he did not see the crowd as bad people gone temporarily insane by their prejudices. Go back to the teaching. Maybe he never saw the teaching as accusatory or something that was intended to incite anger and upset. We read it that way because we are full of judgment and we project on the reading of the scripture our own understanding which can only be dualistic. The Israelites think with one mind:  What do you mean God gave preference to the pagans? If God gave healing to pagans and overlooked the chosen people that changes everything we were ever taught about God and God’s relationship to us.  Nothing so counter to the construct of my reality can be true; therefore you are a liar and an enemy to the faithful. Jesus preferences this teaching by saying: "But the truth is....", neither good nor bad, nor meant to promote self-congratulation or inflict punishment. Truth just is what it is. 

How do we know what is true? Truth is what is and always has been.  In this case, the truth is that God is impartial.  We might not want an impartial God any more than the Israelites. I think we rather like having a very partial God – a God who sees how hard we try, and that we are baptized properly, and that we say our prayers; a God who we proclaim in word and deed blesses us over an against our enemies - despite our best theologies to the contrary. The Israelites did not want an impartial God. And they were willing to kill Jesus to make sure that kind of God could not threaten a whole system that worked out of partiality. Whoever God preferred, the Israelites preferred. And whoever God rejected, the Israelites rejected. Jesus used the full weight of the scriptures to reveal the flaw in that system.  People who do this kind of work need make sure their life insurance policies are kept up to date.

If the truth is that God is impartial, non-judging, all loving, then Jesus was impartial, non-judging, all loving. That means we are supposed to be impartial, non-judging, all loving. The Danish Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard observed after years of trying and a great deal of suffering that the Christian life was totally incompatible with the way the middle class live. It would appear as though we have failed because the task is impossible to begin with.  But that is because our minds have judged it as possible or not possible; our actions as either successful or a failure. But God is impartial, non-judgmental and all loving and so not even our self-judgment cannot stand.  God is impartial. We are meant to be impartial. God is divine and we are but spiritual beings finding our way through this human experience. We can but only practice impartiality, not judge it. We can but only practice putting away our persistent judgments. We can but only practice loving our neighbor. Life is practice. Faith is practice put into action. Each day is filled with opportunities to practice.

Being part of a church community is a way to practice. There are three ways in which Christians have traditionally practiced being impartial, non-judging and all loving. Some have done so by focusing intently on the person of Jesus with prayers and thoughts, devoting their whole hearts to him by devoting their every waking thought to him. Some have practiced through works of service: they have devoted their lives to the struggle against oppression and injustice; they have fed the hungry, cared for the widowed and orphaned, clothed the naked and freed prisoners. And some have practiced through contemplation to the point that they have removed themselves from the world and become recluses in an effort to unite with God in the quiet of their minds.  While all of these ways of practicing a life of faithfulness are helpful and freeing on some level, none of them, in and of themselves are adequate. 

Deepok Chopra wrote a book some years ago called the Third Jesus. In it he points to the historical Jesus, the theological Jesus and Jesus the mystic. His thesis is that only the third Jesus, the teachings of Jesus the mystic is who we should be following. In his teachings the mystical Jesus instructs us to live in the world but not be a part of it. We are to set ourselves apart from the lies that the world would have us believe about our separateness, our independent natures, and the myth of our self-sufficiency. The only thing to come out of those teachings is hatred, disharmony, partiality, and judgments that lead to division; all of which lead invariably to suffering. None of those things are compatible with the Word that is Life. This is a long spiritual journey for those seeking unity with God.  There are no short cuts. Live in the world but do not be a part of it. That means suspending our dualistic mindsets in as much as we are able. To work toward that goal requires support from a community of people with that as their common goal.

I like to think that St. James affords you the opportunity to practice this way of life. I believe that our warm and genuine hospitality is a testament to the way in which we practice impartiality and non-judgment. I believe that all our missional efforts bear witness to our communal practice of non-judgment and unconditional love. I believe that the books we study tell a lot about our curiosity about the mystical Jesus and his teachings as we try to parse them from the doctrinal theological Jesus of the institutional church. I believe that the way in which we practice our common worship testifies to each of these things: impartiality, non-judgment and unconditional love. We begin our practice each week by feeding ourselves spiritually; and this self-love, this self-care, in turn, opens the door to the acceptance of all that is, just as it is. Begin with yourself. Be impartial with yourself. Be non-judging with yourself. Be all loving to your own self.

For you and I in the day to day operating of our lives, surrendering to what is, whatever that is, which is not good or bad, success or failure, in God’s eyes, is the only path Jesus gave us to follow. Live in the world, but do not be a part of it. This is our practice. Embrace it. Or don’t. God is impartial.