Fearlessly Faithful: Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent

Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of the Revised Common Lectionary, and at the first glance at our first reading, I admit I recoiled a bit. Here we are, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. I really don’t want to jump to the scene of desolation first depicted in our reading from Ezekiel.

For most of us, this is our first experience with this kind of lasting upheaval and fear. The Flu Pandemic of 1918, which killed my grandmother's father and left him in an unmarked grave, was over a century ago. The “Greatest Generation” that lived through the cataclysms of the Great Depression and World War II, which included my dad and mom, are in their 90s now. Yet, in other parts of the world, war and famine, disease and oppression, are constant companions. And hopefully, what we may take from this right now, is a biblically-grounded message of how very interconnected we all literally are.

Our readings today are a reminder of the importance of faith in a time of turmoil, of the life-giving role that hope, compassion, trustworthiness, and integrity play not just in being good Christians but in being healthy people.

This is why I myself am grateful for the vision of mercy and honesty which is at the heart of one of our psalms for this morning, Psalm 130. Its beginning is immediately relatable: “Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord….” The word for “depths” is the one used to speak of ocean deeps, a place at the very center of our being, yet dark and remote. The psalmist, in trying to express the extent of his feeling of desolation and alienation, creates an image of waters rising over his head and pulling him under. Sounds so familiar right now. 

The psalm acknowledges our human frailty, how we are too quick to break covenant and relationship with God and with each other. In this particular case of this psalm, what has separated the writer from being fully in communion with God are his own actions. Yet God has not abandoned, and will not abandon, the psalmist. The psalmist lives in hope of forgiveness, mercy, and reconciliation with God. 

Despite all our human calculations and barriers, God’s love, mercy and reconciliation cannot be contained. Rather, and especially in this time of pandemic, we see that God’s love will go where it will, making families of people who once were not only strangers but often outcasts. Even into the depths within ourselves, God still presses upon us, behind and before, below and above, and calls us out of ourselves, out of the toxic individualism that leaves us afraid, instead calling us into community with God, and with each other.

But even in Psalm 130, that frailty and brokenness is not the entire story. Listen again! Even in the opening cry from the foundation of his heart and soul, the psalmist voices his first statement of trust, for he knows that God can hear his voice no matter where the psalmist is.

As we envision those watery depths, perhaps another image and promise can shine through as we recall that the same waters of turmoil can also be waters of creation. God moves over the depths as well as within the depths—what an amazing promise that is! God hears the psalmist’s voice from the depths—because God is always with us in the depths of our fear, anxiety, and despair. Even though this is a psalm of lament, nonetheless hope shines through it throughout.

This is possible because of the three great qualities attributed to God in this brief psalm: forgiveness, steadfast love – which is the term used in the Old Testament for “grace” – and the power to redeem. These are the three essential qualities of God mentioned in this psalm which are vitally important to those who feel they have done something which has disrupted their relationship with God or with others. Forgiveness, grace, and mercy. That right there is a start of a powerful prayer when we are feeling lost, or afraid, or overwhelmed.

Out of the depths I call to you, my God:
Forgiveness, grace, and mercy.

After the Name of “Lord,” the word that appears the most in this short psalm is “wait.” “Waiting for the Lord” is repeated, although varied slightly, three times in succession, and the phrase then follows two repetitions of “more than watchmen for the morning” in verse 5. At the end of the psalm, the psalmist addresses the people of Israel, repeating once again to “wait for the Lord,” and reminding the people that God is merciful, seeking to redeem rather than to destroy. The verb used at the very end, though, which here translated as “wait,” however, also can be translated as “hope.”

And I think that’s key, because unlike what we usually think about “waiting,” hope is not passive. Hope is an act of faith and will—sometimes a rebellious act of faith and will, even. As we face the next few coming days, we are hearing right now a call to us to be fearlessly faithful to the bonds of decency, generosity, and caring that we may have neglected for far too long. This waiting upon God that we do is filled with hope for forgiveness, for reconciliation with ourselves and with each other, as well as with our God.

And yet, we have to remember that asking for forgiveness is nothing without a determination to turn—which is literally what “repentance” means. To embrace light rather than hopelessness or cruelty. To make amends to those we have wronged rather than expect them to continue to “give” us a pass. We depend on grace, but we work for reconciliation.

When times are the darkest, we place our hope in God, whose love never fails. But we also ourselves are called to embody that hopefulness for each other—caring for each other, being present with each other, looking out for each other, extending mercy and grace to each other and to ourselves because our actions are grounded in belovedness. That’s what being children of God made in God’s image and likeness means.

And yet, even when things are the darkest, there is hope, and mercy, and forgiveness, and reconciliation. On the heels of this cry from the deepest troughs in our heart, Psalm 131 follows, and I think it actually continues the thought found in Psalm 130. Psalm 131 continues:

O LORD, I am not proud;
    I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters,
   or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
   like a weaned child upon its mother's breast;
   my soul is quieted within me. 
O Israel, wait upon the LORD,
   from this time forth for evermore. 

Psalm 131 reinforces the sense of hopefulness and trust in Psalm 130, but expands it further, grounding itself in humility and simplicity. The beautiful maternal image of laying upon the breast of God like a child who has awakened from sleep in the night with tears and terror continues to remind us of God’s promise never to abandon us, no matter what. Whether you have been the sobbing child or the weary parent in that scenario, you know how eagerly you await the dawn on nights like that. 

Both Psalm 130 and Psalm 131 end with a reminder for the community to remember the forgiveness, steadfast love, and redemption of God as our foundation—and go and do likewise. In a world where too many of us feel isolated and alone, especially right now, when we are physically separated from each other, we are reminded that we are called to embrace unity and faithfulness—we are made for God, but also, significantly for each other.

The great English poet, essayist and priest John Donne reminded us of our interconnectedness in a famous meditation he wrote upon hearing the church bells toll a funeral. Donne’s first thoughts were not about himself, but about his relationship with others, especially the deceased whom he did not know. He started with the truth that every single person is abundantly beloved by God. I’ve shared this with you before, but I think it speaks to our situation even more forcefully now, so I will repeat it. He wrote:

No man is an island entire of itself;
   every man is a piece of the continent,
   a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea,
   Europe is the less,
   as well as if a promontory were,
   as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were;
any man's death diminishes me,
   because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
   it tolls for thee. (1)

Perhaps this pandemic can remind us to remember how radically inclusive Jesus’s vision is, the same dream that God has had for us from creation onward. One of raising us to new life and new communion with God, with each other, with all creation. Just as Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, so we can be raised to new life too, starting right now. The heart of Jesus’s message, contrary to what we see represented in popular culture, is not self-centeredness, but community—community rooted in abundant grace, abundant mercy, abundant hope and faith in each other. Abundant life through love in action for those we know and do not know. 

And our lives right now depend on cultivating those attitudes, on scrupulously avoiding anything that might harm another, not just for our own sakes, but for the sake of the most vulnerable among us. If any of us is injured, we all suffer. We share a common life. That’s what communion is really all about.

Loving-kindness encircles us so that we may then embody it out into this aching, hurting world. Grace upon grace raises us and heals us, if only we will let it—but not for own sakes only—no, so we can go out, fearlessly faithful in the name of our brother Jesus, who loves us as profoundly as he loved Lazarus, and who has called us to a new life of compassion and unity. claimed us as his kindred through his determination that no one be left to sink in the depths. 

Out of the depths we call to you, our God:
Forgiveness, grace, and mercy.

Almighty One,
we trust in your steadfast presence.

Show us your ways,
and teach us your paths,
O Lord Most Tender and Loving.

We know you are creating within us
new opportunities to share your love
and embody your gospel in the world.

In trust and assurance,
we wait upon You, O Lord,
to find that You are already here,
whatever the tide may bring.

You, O God, hold us tenderly;
your steadfast love is with us in the depths— 
the depths within us, 
and the depths that surround us.

Make us fearlessly faithful 
that we may proclaim your truth
and be your steadfast disciples in the world.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am Morning Prayer service, online, due to COVID-19, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:
Psalm 130
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45

References for more information:
(1) John Donne, Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, 1624.  The full text of this meditation can be found at http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/meditation17.php.  The fascinating background to the creation of this work can be found here.

Fearlessly Interconnected: Sermon for the 4th Sunday in Lent A

When bad things happen to people, one of our first responses is to try to figure out what caused the misfortune. And the disciples are no different, as we hear in our gospel from John today. 

If you spend some time reading and re-reading our gospel passage, you will notice certain words being repeated over and over again. Fourteen times we hear the word “blind,”—more than the twelve times we hear some version of the verb “to see.” Ten times we hear the word “eyes,” and nine times we hear the word “sin.” 

The first time sight is mentioned, it is that Jesus sees the man born blind, starting right in verse 1. The disciples then obviously see this man and ask Jesus about his state of sinfulness. In asking this and in Jesus’s answer, it is made clear that the disciples do not see this man clearly, much less the role that sin was believed to play in misfortunes such as being born blind. Once again, we are reminded that we only see what we are actually looking for. And that is truly a theme we can take away from this long gospel passage. 

It is interesting to trace the arc of the story line: Jesus and his disciples are walking along, talking. They see a blind man, and the disciples reflect a common understanding of illness and disability at the time that those who were disabled were being punished for sin. They see a man whose disability isolates him, and want to know whose sin caused him to be punished. They define him by his disability and make that disability his identity. That’s a tendency that can play out in this time of anxiety over COVID19, too.

Some of us might think this kind of thinking is primitive. Or maybe others of us might admit that this kind of thinking sometimes pops up in our thoughts too? How many of us have thought “Why me, Lord?” when faced with a crisis? It’s not that uncommon even today when some disaster happens to shake us. We want to know “why?” even when that question has no provable answer. And sometimes, that demand to know why is so we can BLAME someone or something else for what is happening. We are already seeing that pop up, even from people who are supposed to be our leaders. 

And in our gospel, since last week’s encounter between Jesus and the unnamed woman at the well, we have skipped right over some things. In chapter 8, the chapter before our reading today, Jesus makes one of the seven “I am” statements that are so characteristic of John’s gospel, when he says, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.”

He then spends the rest of chapter 8 expounding upon that claim. Jesus repeats that claim in our gospel today, and this story is meant to illustrate the same point that Paul did in our reading from Ephesians—that without light we cannot see. The claim of Jesus to be the light of the world adds an entire other dimension to statements made both at the beginning and the end of this gospel about the responsibility that seeing places upon us. And here, just as our epistle pointed out, it is the light that makes someone able to see. The light of the world. Jesus.

Being able to see is both a blessing and a responsibility. Just like Jesus, once we see suffering in the world, we are called upon to then look for how we can help care for each other. Especially in a time such as this. Our gospel is a gift to us to remind us that even as we are in unfamiliar circumstances, and maybe can’t see the way forward with any certainty, that God is nevertheless alongside us and calling us to put our claim to be God’s children to work. 

It is an irony, perhaps, that as we hear this story in 2020, we are seeing tangible proof of our interconnectedness. The challenge is to see that interconnectedness as a blessing— and maybe push back against the modern delusion that we really are able to put up walls and defenses between us and those who carry the burden of illness and contagion, for instance.

Our gospel today urges us to consider how well we keep the eyes of our hearts open to see God’s providence and care for us, even when the darkness seems overwhelming. Our response to this pandemic is an opportunity to make visible the light of Christ in a time of darkness. Even as situations are at play which may divide us physically, we can deny the power of darkness and be the good people long to see in times such as these. 

How we care for each other will directly impact the duration of this time of trial, make no mistake. During this crisis, we are being called to choose unity and charity, across every boundary we use because we think they protect us, and realize that God calls us to draw the circle ever wider. We can choose enlightenment and empathy, instead of allowing ourselves to give in to fear and mutual suspicion because of our own blindness and hardness of heart. 

the COVID19 virus

Up until these last few weeks, perhaps some of have thought that times of pandemics were a thing of the past—or at the very least were a thing of places without access to modern medicine. Perhaps we reassured ourselves that viruses like COVID-19, hopscotching from country to country, were really only the thing of movies like I Am Legion; The Stand, and about a hundred zombie movies. But now we have seen how quickly the entire world can be enveloped in anxiety and a sense of helplessness and suspicion.

We are being brought face to face with our own vulnerability in a way that seldom happens. But here’s the thing: that vulnerability was there all along. Our gospel today invites us to consider our interconnectedness, which is a vital lesson to learn from this challenge before us in the coming weeks. We are being given a gift to remake the priorities in our lives from a position of adversarial competition to one of caring for each other—even if we start only because it is in our enlightened self-interest.

Maybe from this crisis, our eyes can be opened to embrace some vital truths, truths that are the backbone of God’s dream for us to live our very best life. Maybe we can come to see truths like: 

We are all only as well as the sickest person among us, and that doesn’t mean to shun each other, but to care for each other, to be considerate of each other, and to make sure that people have expanded access to food and preventive medical care so that they can have the luxury of staying home and out of harm’s way.

May we see another truth: every single person you see is someone’s loved one, so only take what you need.

May we see this truth, too: this illness, like most illnesses, is no respecter of rank or privilege or station. And what that means for all of us is that it is in our own best interest for everyone to be able to pay their bills while abiding by physical distancing, to engage in the luxury of sheltering in place for all our sakes.

Even in this time of lockdown, the most vulnerable among us will see their ability to feed themselves and their families become even harder. The lonely and isolated risk becoming more so. What happens to our unhoused neighbors when all the soup kitchens close, and all the places they gathered to seek shelter from the elements are no longer available? 

May we never again forget this truth: Medical staff—and in particular nurses, nursing home aides, EMTs, and caregivers-- are the backbone of this fight—and we need to treasure and value them accordingly. 

Farmers, food plant workers, truckers, and grocery workers have never been more important in keeping us all supplied as we begin to shelter in place. These are vital jobs that makes our lives possible, and they too should be treasured and respected, commensurate with how much we rely upon them.

But even more, perhaps as we are given the opportunity to rise to this challenge, as the Body of Christ, we can be that light to the world that Jesus claims as central to his identity. We can reach out to those who are vulnerable or frightened and reassure them, just like our psalm does, to truly see with vulnerable, tender hearts, that we are never alone. We are always beloved. God has chosen us and anointed us, and provides us with all our hearts and souls need.

We just have to have the eyes to see, and the courage to be vulnerable, to open our hearts to each other, fearlessly.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 Morning Prayer service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, during our first Sunday of online worship only.

Readings:

Psalm 23

1 Samuel 16:1-13

Ephesians 5:8-14

John 9:1-41

Being Fearless, Being Light: Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, year A

This week by a fluke I discovered a wonderful little book, called The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse, by Charlie Mackesy. It’s a simple book, hand illustrated and written in brush strokes, so you might think it is for children—and it is. But it is also for adults, too—and it’s categorized as ethics. I want to share part of it with you.

The book starts off with a boy, who meets a mole. 
“Hello,” the boy says, and the boy and the mole look at each other. 
“I’m so small,” said the mole.
“Yes,” said the boy, picking up the mole. “But you make a huge difference.”
The boy then places the mole on a low-hanging branch on as tree, and climbs up to join the mole. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked the mole. 
“Kind,” replied the boy, and he is shown holding an umbrella over the mile as it rains in the tree. 
“What do you think success is?” asked the boy
 “To love,” said the mole. 

**** 

The mole is then shown looking at a beautiful three-tiered cake. “Well hello,” the mole murmurs to the cake. 

The boy and the mole are then shown walking and talking. 
“Do you have a favourite saying?” asked the boy. 
“Yes,” said the mole. “If at first you don’t succeed, have some cake.” 
“I see. Does it work?" asks the boy. 
“Every time,” the mole replied. 

****

The mole is then shown carrying a cake, setting it down and looking at it. “Just a tiny taste,” the mole says to himself, and in a series of images, we see the cake disappearing and the mole getting rounder. 

The boy and mole are walking and talking together again.
“I got you a delicious cake,” said the mole. 
“Did you?” 
 “Yes.” 
“Where is it?” 
“I ate it,” said the mole. 
“Oh.”
“But I got you another.”
“Did you? Where is that one?”
“The same thing seems to have happened,” the mole observes.

****

The boy and the mole are back sitting on the branch in the tree, facing each other. The boy speaks: “What do you think is the biggest waste of time?”
“Comparing yourself to others,” said the mole. 
“I wonder if there is a school of unlearning."
We see a picture of a mole with glasses and a cane. The mole continues, “Most of the old moles I know wish they had listened less to their fears and more to their dreams.” 

****

The boy and the mole are shown sitting on a rock, looking out at a field or moor. 
“What is that over there?” asks the boy. 
“It’s the wild,” said the mole. “Don’t fear it.” 
The two friends begin walking in the moor alongside a stream, and the mole remarks, “Imagine how we would be if we were less afraid.” (1)

****

“Imagine how we would be if we were less afraid.”

What an amazing observation. It’s actually what the gospel is all about, too. And I was thinking about this observation in light of the fact that today is also Scouting Sunday, and so, although I don’t want to put our Scouts on the spot, I was wondering if you would care to share the Scout Oath with us?

On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law, to help other people at all times, to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.  

I am struck by the similarity of the principles of Scouting and the principles of being a faithful person. Scouts are also called to be dedicated, brave, loyal, and engaged with the community around them. You don’t become a Scout just for yourself, or just to collect merit badges. You also don’t just become a Scout for a season of your life. Scouting and groups like it are a lifelong community of people dedicated to working for the good of the greater community. It’s a life dedicated to sacrifice, in the best sense. Just like in our religious lives, being committed to a cause greater than yourself and selfish concerns makes a Scout brave, as well as reverent.

“Imagine how we would be if we were less afraid."

Our reading from Mr. Mackesy’s book and the principles of Scouting support the point of our readings today. As an observer of human nature and child of the Bible Belt, I learned early on that a lot of times people engaged in religious behavior when they are afraid—I noticed this when I was a little kid. When the tornado flew over our house when I was ten, and landed the next block over, as we huddled under the mattresses—except for my dad, who was keeping company with some guy named Jack Daniels, some guy named Marlboro, and our collie dog out in the garage—we certainly engaged in some prayer. Probably even my dad with that Jack guy and Marlboro guy.

Then as I grew older, I realized that some people were going to church out of fear. My Catholic friend told me about Holy Days of Obligation, and Confession, and dying in a state of mortal sin—and it scared me, and I was just a little towheaded Protestant. The preachers in some of the churches my mother took us to did an awful lot of describing of the Devil, and the fires of Hell, and being tossed into a lake of fire.

And I knew people who didn’t worship God so much as fear Him—and yes they always called God “Him” with a catch of fear in their voice. And it made me sad—the majority of Jesus’s words to us are meant to allay our fears, because a heart filled with fear has no room in it for love. 

Jesus spends a huge amount of his time reminding us of God’s abundance, of God’s generous love and gift of grace, probably because we live most of our lives being told to see everyone around us as competition for scarce resources, and see strangers as potential “takers of our stuff.”

In religious practice, this fear and hardheartedness often leads people to constantly try to find some magic formula that will keep God from smiting us, some calculated exchange where we try to find the least we can give so that we can still maintain the illusion that we are in control of our lives. And so they check off boxes like going to church—without ever moving to BEING the church out in the world. And it all starts out of hard-heartedness—which is almost always rooted in anger and fear.

Our readings today address those kinds of issues too. Our reading from Isaiah deals with how we can offer a sacrifice to God—what Isaiah calls a “fast”-- that would truly be holy and pleasing. At the root of Isaiah’s call to renewal is this question: How important is it to put your heart into what you do? Or is it more important to simply follow the rules and checklists of our “to-do” lists?

Fasts, especially in our world of cheap fast food, certainly are not a common practice—unless you are a religious person. Many of us have at least encountered religious people who fast at some point in the religious year. But the reading here questions empty observance of ritual without allowing true repentance to take root in our hearts. We are coming up on the season of fasting, and so it’s a good time to ask ourselves what purpose fasting serves.

It’s important to note that fasting isn’t just a Christian religious practice. Jews observe a ta’anit, or fast, on Yom Kippur and on Tisha B’Av, a day in July or August that mourns the two terrible destructions of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Babylonians and then the Romans. Muslims fast as part of the Five Pillars of Islam during the daylight hours in Ramadan, unless they are sick, pregnant, or traveling. Many Buddhists fast from meat and animal products by observing a strict diet of vegetarianism. 

Isaiah admonishes those who are using their fast to try to manipulate God without allowing God to transform them and their actions and values. This passage addresses the problem of empty worship—worship that makes the worshiper appear to be righteous, but instead is just camouflage, ultimately an empty gesture because it does not lead to a conversion of the heart and the soul.

It’s a trap that hangs there in front of all of us in this time, too. It’s easy to claim to be a Christian, or a Scout, or as a member of any other voluntary association, especially if that label gives you access to power and influence. It’s easy to claim that label but also resist or actually refuse being changed by the ideals the group stands for, such as following those commandments Christ gives, like loving your neighbor and praying for your enemies. 

I mean, who here has had a neighbor who was really hard to love? We did—Mrs. Mayes, who would call the cops on us when we flew our kites in front of her house. I kid you not. Who does that?? So loving your neighbor and praying for your enemies--THOSE are real sacrifices, too. But in Isaiah, God points out that the people are not truly engaging in sacrifice but merely participating in that same kind of magical thinking that pretends that by doing X, we can make God do Y.

Dear ones, God is NOT a puppet dancing on our strings. But the good news is, we aren’t supposed to be puppets, either. God doesn’t want empty shows of deprivation. God wants all of us—heart and soul, because God adores us that much. 

There certainly are times when our actions seem outwardly correct, but lack a conviction of the heart. This is also a common theme in scripture. Thus Isaiah reorients the term “fast” here in an unusual way—turning the concept of sacrifice on its head. Basically God is saying this: Don’t fast to me out of fear—offer your best to me and those around you out of love. Be fearless in giving to others. Be fearless in fighting wrong, even if it costs you. Don’t make a show of doing without if, after you end your fast, you continue to engage in activities that ignore the plight of the suffering, or even adds to that suffering.

Do you want to make a sacrifice that pleases me? God asks. Fight injustice and oppression. Feed the hungry and bring the poor into your home just as eagerly as you would an honored guest—which was a very serious obligation in the Mediterranean culture of that time. Clothe those who are naked. Help your family members rather than try to hide from those who need help. And do it all not out of fear, but out of love. Be fearless in living out of love, and your light will shine out for all to see. 

Through Isaiah’s words, God continues offering practical advice for those who want to LIVE as children of God in word, name, and example: Stop gossiping about others or pointing the finger of blame or shame at others. Satisfy the needs of the afflicted—those who lack safety, who are fleeing from slavery, oppression, warfare, lawlessness, racial or religious oppression, or violence. 

God makes it clear that the observation of religious ritual is empty if it does not bring about changes in one’s daily life, such as in how one treats others, as this reading points out. Ultimately God further clarifies the point of sacrifices: they are meant to give us the blessing of being holy, of being part of something larger than ourselves. Sacrifices are meant to give us the blessing of living without fear. 

And what is the result of following these kinds of sacrifices—the kind that make the person doing these kinds of sacrifices holy, blameless, and even blessed in the sight of God? Isaiah tells us that by being generous and openhearted in our own lives, God will pour out abundance within our hearts, making us joyful and even fearless in all we do in the name of God. Isaiah also promises that by offering our true fast to God, “Our lights will shine out for all to see.” Just as Jesus assures his followers in our gospel today. 

In our gospel, Jesus has just giving the Sermon on the Mount, and we hear the words right after the Beatitudes. Notice that Jesus also pointedly compares his disciples to light, just as the Isaiah reading did. Light helps us to see, and in seeing, gain knowledge and wisdom. Light is directly associated with wisdom in the word “enlightenment”—which is why we talk about “our eyes being opened” whenever we come to a new understanding, or epiphany. 

The point of enlightenment is not selfish—it’s not a “get out of hell free” card, although some people would lead you to believe so. No, truly enlightened discipleship doesn’t mean staying cloistered amongst true believers, who already live in light. Rather, Christian enlightenment calls us to go out where people dwell in darkness, and to work for their enlightenment, which in turn will build our own.

Letting your light be seen can mean not hiding your talents or beliefs, but also being authentic in your actions as well as words, and living with integrity, as Isaiah described in that first reading. 

Jesus constantly asks us to imagine how we would be if we were less afraid. Jesus’s message throughout Matthew is that kingdom of heaven is already upon us—not just somewhere off in the future. Our time to truly live as disciples is NOW, and Jesus seeks our response if we are to truly follow him and obey God’s commandments to love fearlessly and give fearlessly in heart as well as action. 

 Just like in that little book of ethical teachings about the Boy and the Mole, Jesus himself offers us a school of unlearning, as we heard in our story. Jesus challenges us to attend his school of unlearning—to unlearn the belief that we are awash in darkness, and that there is no way out. The belief that it is better to grab all you can than share what you have. The fear that there is never enough. 

Jesus calls us to turn our lives around first by denying the sway that common contempt and cruelty has in the world—and instead calling us to grow up to be kind. And then keep going in being more deeply transformed by Jesus’s radical gospel of love the more we practice true worship of God outside these doors and out in our everyday lives.

Be fearless. Be the light. Living as lights to the world is a call to be fearless in allowing Jesus’s gospel of love to transform us inwardly, and then to let that light shine through our care of each other and even people we’ve never met. It means saying yes to Jesus’s invitation to let go of fear and anxiety, to actually believe his promises of transformation, and then act of that ongoing transformation with the least of those around us.

Be fearless. Be the light.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on February 8, and at the 8:00 and 10:30 Eucharists at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.


Readings:
Isaiah 58:1-9a, [9b-12]
Psalm 112:1-9, (10) 
1 Corinthians 2:1-12, [13-16]
Matthew 5:13-20


Citations:
1) Charlie Mackesy, The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, and the Horse, 2019. You can buy a copy of this amazing, beautiful book here.