St. Peter's By The Sea

October 12, 2008 - The Golden Calf

It would be better if I just didn’t watch or listen to the news. All I hear lately is the resounding noise of the global financial market crashing down around us, the sound of pundits and analysts attempting to make sense of a situation that simply defies sound-bite explanations, the sound of policymakers and politicians shouting each other down in a desperate attempt to gain back the trust of a jittery public. I don’t even have any serious investments, and yet I’ve found myself on more than one occasion in the past week calling a friend to talk it over, needing comforting and companionship. I have all of this bottled anxiety, and quite frankly, even my beloved Texas Longhorns’ amazing victory over the Oklahoma Sooners yesterday could only alleviate the tension for a short while.

There is an interesting timeliness to this financial crisis that has not escaped my attention, either. And I’m not talking about the connection with the anniversary of Black Monday and the beginning of the Great Depression in October of 1929. No, I am thinking of the interesting connection with the readings that we are currently hearing from Exodus. In a bizarre twist, we have an anxious, fear-ridden, reactionary public today, reflecting back over a Biblical story describing the anxious, fear-ridden, reactionary Israelites at the foot of Mount Horeb.

Over the past few weeks, we have followed the journey of the Israelites, hearing how God has provided for them every step of the way.  God parted the Red Sea to save them, rained down bread from heaven to feed them, and made water flow from a rock to quench their thirst.  Again and again God has taken care of their needs.  Now they have arrived at the foot of God’s Holy Mountain, where the story would seem to be leading toward a dramatic climax. And yet, as soon as Moses goes up the mountain to talk to God, the people become restless.  Almost immediately they start to grumble to Aaron, Moses’ brother. “Where did Moses go,” they wonder. He hasn’t been gone more than five minutes, but already they’re panicky. They want something tangible to put their hope in, not this invisible, unknowable God, a problem that I think many of us find common today. So Aaron tells them to hand over their gold and jewels, which they willingly do.  And they melt down the gold and jewelry and make a statue of a golden calf, and they worship it.

My wife says, rightly I think, that it is one of the saddest stories in all of Scripture. At the very moment when God is meeting Moses on the mountain, the people are blaspheming God in the valley. God has devotedly heard their cries again and again, drawing them from a life of slavery out into closer reliance on him in the desert, where they can deepen their relationship. But they have even less patience than a toddler, and immediately move on to try out a new god who they hope will be around more. How incredibly sad.

But the most incredible part of the story is the almost instantaneous willingness by the people to give their gold and jewelry over to this new idol. Now remember, these are the same people who keep looking to God to bail them out of any and every moment of uncertainty, who never seem able to provide for themselves, who never offer God anything in these moments. They were hungry, so God provides the manna. They were thirsty, so God provides the flowing springs. They needed safety, so God provides the towering flame and cloud to defend them. After all, what do they have? They’re out in the desert, right? What could they possibly have to offer? And not only do they not offer anything or bring anything to the table, but they also complain: about the things they don’t have that they want, about the nostalgic vision of bygone days, or about the way that God isn’t working on their schedule.  

But when Aaron comes up with the idea to build an idol, what happens? Gold earrings and jewelry show up like rabbits out of magicians’ hats. No complaints about how little they already have. No questions about why they should give. No concerns about who is going to make the decisions about how the gold is used. They are practically falling over themselves to give to this golden image the things they have withheld from God. Where was all this generosity when they found themselves in positions of desperation before?

It is not a reality far removed from our own. Even today, we make idols of things when God’s back is turned. Moses has gone up to talk to God, and we are down here at the foot of the Holy Mountain, looking around and wondering what to do with ourselves in God’s absence. We might not be pulling off our earrings to melt down into a golden calf, but we’ll pull out our credit cards to buy a new car or big vacation or whatever else we think we want. We complain about not having enough while buying far more than we need. Why else is this society drowning in consumer debt? Why else do our malls look more like temples—with flowing fountains and high ceilings and arched entryways—than our churches do? Consumerism has literally consumed us.

Artists and poets have continued to make a connection between the golden calf and the dollar, and the striking resemblance of a massive bronze bull two-blocks from Wall Street to the Golden Calf of our Exodus story. In this current financial crisis, most people are asking a lot of questions about how we got into this mess and looking for someone to pin the blame on. But an equally good question is one that wonders why we have been so incredibly willing to hand over everything we have to Wall Street. We’ll strip off our metaphorical earrings and hand over 700 billion dollars to bailout the global banking system, but in the meantime, as a country we seem incapable of properly funding initiatives that would ensure food for the millions of people—mostly children—who go to bed hungry, or grant every person in this country adequate healthcare. We become panicked and outraged about the state of the economy, but we can’t summon enough urgency to be panicked and outraged about the catastrophic environmental crisis facing the planet. Much like the ancient Israelites, God gets a heaping dose of our requests and our complaints, but God and God’s people aren’t getting the gold in our ears.

As I have heard the stories read from Exodus again over the past weeks, I have had to shake my head. Not in disbelief over what Aaron and the Israelites did so long ago, but out of conviction that I am falling into many of the same traps here and now. Fear of the unknown, rather than fear of God, is at the heart of my motivation. Fear of the unknown is governing most of us today, and it is certainly the driving factor of investors on Wall Street, who can’t seem to be comforted enough to stop pulling their money out. Fear and anxiety of the unknown will inevitably drive this country and this world for quite some time, as we languish down at the bottom of the mountain and wonder where our leadership has gone.

As the people of God, we have something to offer to the situation, something unique and lasting in a time filled with so much jitteriness. In a time when the world seems governed by those only capable of reacting to problems, rather than creating something permanent, we have a message of good news and an opportunity to take our resources—even the ones that we jealously hoard like the Israelites—and use them to transform the world. Instead of melting them down into false idols, we can use them to build the Kingdom of God, where the hungry go away filled, where the sick and diseased are cared for, where the oppressed and the victims of war see peace return to their lives. When God seems so far away and we think it’s time to look out for ourselves alone, we can seize this chance to demonstrate our faith, that we know his grace and providence is still at our side, even now, when everything looks so bleak.

As Bishop Mark Sisk of New York recently wrote,

“The gospel that we have heard, and have been called to proclaim is not that the darkness is not dark, it is rather that the light of Christ will over-come it.  Therefore, we need have no fear. Our identity is not defined by our bank accounts but by God’s love.  The ground on which we stand, the abiding love of God for us and for all creation, is solid ground.  Though we may be surrounded by the tornadoes’ winds we need have no fear.  The wind of the Spirit of God who sustains us is more than any of these.”? ?

Now more than ever, when our society is in such turmoil, we are called as the people of God to be beacons of hope.   We can be such beacons of hope not because we possess some secret knowledge of how to fix the complex financial and economic problems facing our world. Rather, our hope, our promise, our calling is to remind ourselves and each other that the One through whom all things were made possesses us in the palm of his hand.

Posted on: Sun, 12 Oct 2008 8:03 am
Category: Sermons

October 5, 2008

21st Sunday after Pentecost

When I was 22 and had just graduated from the University of Texas, like most recent college graduates, I decided that I didn’t want to get a job. I couldn’t imagine going into some office and sitting around all day under florescent lights. Instead, I wanted to go on an adventure. I wanted to be out of doors all day long, in the woods and up on mountaintops. I wanted to see stars and smell things growing.

Somewhere around this time I heard about the Appalachian Trail, a 2000-mile hiking trail that connects a Georgia to Maine. The AT, as it is called, is “thru-hiked” by several hundred men and women every year, people who decide to do the whole thing in one go, rather than (like a sane person) hike small sections of it at a time. Just before I graduated, I decided that I wanted to attempt to thru-hike the trail. I graduated in December, spent two months getting ready, and in March of 2001 I headed east to Springer Mountain in rural northern Georgia to begin my adventure.

What I discovered when I got to the trail, and during the nearly 3 months I spent on it after that first day, totally surpassed my expectations. It was hard, of course. Hiking 20 mile days, wearing the same clothes day after day, eating more peanut butter than anyone should, and seeming to remain in a constant state of dampness, it was all hard. Ultimately I stopped at the halfway point, around the 1000-mile marker, at the border of Maryland and Pennsylvania. But it was also magical. I kept a journal the whole time I was out there, logging my experiences each day as I wandered through the woods and up and over dozens of mountains. Waking to the sound of birds, watching spring come to the wild places, making fresh tracks in late season snowfall, looking out at the world from a seemingly endless series of mountaintops. It was amazing, and I will treasure that time forever.

But you don’t have to spend months out on a secluded trail to experience what I’m talking about. You know exactly what it is I went searching for, and wound up finding, out there on the AT. You know it because I bet its one of the things you love most about Rhode Island. You love the wooded places where birds and wildlife live. You love the little rivers and the lakes. You love the look of the light on the sea on a clear day, or the smell of the saltwater on the air. You get something out of it. You are fed, deeply, down to the bottom of your soul. It’s hard to describe what you feel out there, because what you experience goes beyond words. But it is clear that what you encounter out there is God.

The psalmist knew all about the miraculous way that earth communicates God’s presence:

The heavens declare the glory of God, *
and the firmament shows his handiwork.

One day tells its tale to another, *
and one night imparts knowledge to another.

Although they have no words or language, *
and their voices are not heard,

Their sound has gone out into all lands, *
and their message to the ends of the world.

The Psalmist understood that the earth exemplifies the majesty of its Creator. It all speaks without words, proclaiming God’s splendor. And it wasn’t just for us. The rest of the world—trees, rocks, mountains, waters—they don’t exist just because God wanted something lovely for us to look at. They weren’t all formed by the Creating God just for people. God wasn’t trying to decorate a nice play-space for us to live in. God created the universe, the stars, this planet, and the entire natural world around us because they sing God’s praise by their very existence. They have no voice, the Psalmist says, they have no words or language, but their message rings clear to the ends of the world: God is good.

Sometimes we have this anthropocentric understanding of God and the world. In other words, “It’s all about people.” We remember from Genesis that God made a garden and plopped us down in the middle of it. The whole point of Creation, we think, was us. Our existence. Our salvation. Our relationship with God. Case in point: we look to one of the most famous parts of the Bible, which we heard today: the Ten Commandments. We hear their prescriptions for a life lived in relationship with God and with each other. And we may naturally assume that God must be only interested in human beings—in what we’re doing (or not doing) and what sort of statement our lives make. But the Psalmist reminds us the list of “thou shalts” and “thou shalt nots” in the Ten Commandments, and all the other words of the Bible are not the only guidelines that God gives us for living. The entire created order—the beauty of the natural world and the creatures that populate it—also have an important message about God and God’s love.

Today is the perfect day to hear this Psalm. Because today we remember and celebrate a person who had a particularly close relationship with the beauty of creation: Francis of Assisi. Saint Francis lived in Italy in the 12th century. He grew up in a very wealthy family, but as a young man renounced his wealth and possessions, left his family and inheritance behind, and chose to live simply. His simple life of service to the poor also included a profound respect for all of God’s creatures and for all of creation. He is said to have once preached to a flock of birds, reminding them that everything they had was due to God’s gracious gift, and encouraging them to use their beautiful voices to praise God in song. He sought to reconcile animals and humans to one another. Once, when a ferocious wolf was terrifying the people of Gubbio, Francis tamed him and taught the wolf and people to live in harmony. Apparently one Christmas, Francis brought animals into the church and invited people to dress as Mary and Joseph, shepherds and angels, to portray the Christmas story (don’t worry, Altar Guild…I don’t plan on doing this—at least this year). When asked why he included animals, Francis said, “Surely the animals praised the new Messiah just as the shepherds and angels did.” He even wrote a hymn in which he called his Brother Sun, Sister Moon, and all the created order to sing their praises to God (and we will say this poem together later today).

Francis proclaimed by his life the message being expressed in today’s psalm—that we hear God’s glory proclaimed not only in the words of the Ten Commandments and the other words, beautiful though they might be, of the Bible, but also in the wordless speech of creation and creatures. And that’s a wonderful and marvelous thing. It should lead us to a greater appreciation for the natural world. It should cause us to protect and advocate for this fragile earth, our island home. It should force us to look more closely for God, not just in the words of the Bible or the letter of the law, but in the beauty of nature and the kindness of God’s creatures.

But that is not the only legacy of Saint Francis. If it were, then that we could all pat ourselves on the back for recycling and go for a nature walk instead of coming to church. But, you know, I don’t think that is the end of the story. Because Francis is famous for something else, other than being the patron saint of birdbaths and nature trails. Francis once said: “Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.” The reason that Francis could see God in the beauty of creation was that he knew that sometimes actions speak louder than words. God is able to proclaim to us in ways that go beyond and above speech, and we are called to do the same. We need to proclaim God in those same ways. We don’t need pretty speech or perfect words to proclaim God’s love. Sunsets don’t speak. Dogs can’t form sentences. But they proclaim, by their beauty and their behavior, the love of God. Can we say as much about ourselves?

In a few moments you will have an opportunity to go into the Parish Hall and witness some of the ministries of this wonderful church. You can meet the men and women who are trying to frame their lives to proclaim the gospel—in outreach and pastoral care and youth ministry and music and so much more. They may not always use words to tell others about the goodness and glory of God, but just as importantly, their lives tell the tale. Take the time to explore the work of these ministries. And consider how you, too, are being called to preach the gospel, sometimes without words.

Posted on: Sun, 5 Oct 2008 8:44 am
Category: Sermons

September 28, 2008

20th Sunday after Pentecost

Shortly before Jesus began his public ministry, another person was garnering crowds and getting a lot of attention. A man named John had taken up residence on the shores of the Jordan River and was preaching a radically new message. John went way out to the desert to practice this ministry because he was trying to make a point. He could have gone to Jerusalem, where the Temple was and where all the religious elite of his day lived. But John was not interested in lumping himself together with the religious leaders of the day. So instead he got himself as far from them as he could go, miles away from the city.

And there he baptized people—earning the name “The Baptist”—in the water of the Jordan, and there he preached. It is a testament to his charisma and magnetism that he was followed by such massive crowds, and not because the message he was sharing with them was not particularly sunny. Nowadays you see packed churches where preachers are making promises of riches and blessings if people will simply believe that God wants us all to have a three-car garage and wear Italian suits. But John the Baptist’s message was harsh: he bluntly told people they were living sinful lives. He told them that God was angry and frustrated by the people’s lack of righteousness, by all the corruption and inequality in the world. And he told them—and this is the reason why he wanted to get so far from Jerusalem—that their proper religious upbringing and beliefs wouldn’t save them from God’s wrath.

Only repentance would make any difference. Repent, he said, for God is near.

When we think of repentance, we usually think of feeling sorry for something we’ve done. We “repent” when we make our confession of sin. But a more appropriate definition of repentance is to change your mind, or your course of conduct, on account of regret or dissatisfaction. Repentance literally means to change directions, to turn away from something, to go in the opposite direction.

So repent, John said; change the direction of your life. Do things differently.

And he was specific: if you have clothes you’re not wearing, give them to people who don’t have enough clothes. He told tax collectors and soldiers—two occupations that the Jewish people in Jesus’ day despised because both of them were in cahoots with the oppressive Roman government—not to exploit, extort or falsely accuse people. Repentance for John wasn’t some pie-in-the-sky theological construct; it was the stuff of real life, the rubber meeting the road, when people started putting their ordinary lives in line with the will of God.

In today’s gospel, Jesus reminds the religious leaders of his day about John’s preaching, and then tells a parable to sum it up. There are two brothers: one who says yes when his father asks him to go to the fields and work, but then doesn’t go. Meanwhile, the second brother tells his father he won’t go work in the fields, but then does. Which son did what his father had asked? Well, based on the way he frames the parable, we know the correct answer is the second son, right? But how? What is he getting at? Jesus is, in essence, asking the religious authorities, and asking us, a question:

What’s better, a respectable religious person who always says “yes” to God—pays God lip-service—but doesn’t do what God asks in his or her daily life. . .

. . .or a non-religious person who says “no” to God—rebels against God’s authority or even questions his existence—but then behaves in such a way, in their daily life, that is consistent with God’s will?

It’s a question that hits close to home for the religious leaders of Jesus’ time. The chief priests had been hammering Jesus for hanging out with the dregs of society—prostitutes and tax collectors. They followed Jesus around and harangued him about the sort of people that he surrounded himself with. They believed that Jesus’ friends and acquaintances were a sort of spiritual contamination, just by their very existence. But there was nothing Jesus despised more than this holier-than-thou worldview. He couldn’t stand it when the ones on the “inside” did everything they could to keep those they didn’t like on the “outside.” These insiders were all talk, the original “yes” men. They had lots to say about all sorts of things, but when it came down to it, they had very little action to back it up their tough words. Their lives, in practice, were empty of God.

And, it seems, that question hits close to home for us as well. There are many people out there who pay God lip-service. It comes so easily. I’m sure you’ve seen it done, and maybe you’ve done it more than once yourself. These people talk about God easily and freely. They know all the right code words, all the Biblical phrases and every word of the liturgy. They seem to have a direct connection to the Almighty, a Bat-phone of sorts that enables them to know God’s every command. Yet that same person is the one who just bought a new boat but considered a $50 bill in the offering plate at Christmas good for the year. Their talk is empty. It’s really all about them, not God. It’s a lot like that old parenting adage: Do as I say and not as I do. Parents say that in moment of frustration, and also in moments of embarrassment, when their actions and their words are shown to contradict one another. But, both Jesus and the religious leaders acknowledge, the one who says the right things but doesn’t do them isn’t on the right path.

And then, on the other hand, there are so many people out there who struggle to articulate just who or what God is. Talking about God is hard to do, whether it’s because they came from a religiously repressive family or they just lost a loved one from disease or tragedy. And maybe they even said no to God on more than one occasion. Maybe they left church as a teenager and never looked back. But there they are, in the middle of the serving line at the Soup Kitchen every month. You can always count on them to generously donate to worthy causes. Maybe they became a foster parent. Or maybe they are the ones you can always count on to selflessly show love and compassion. They may not ever refer to God, or speak like a churchgoer, but their life is a pure reflection of God’s will. Their life is gospel.

So much of Jesus’ time was spent ministering to those people living on the periphery of society—the diseased, the sinners, the hated—and trying to draw them back in. They may not have always said “yes” to God at first, but they were included because they allowed their lives to be changed, their images of themselves to be rearranged by Jesus’ merciful touch. Whether they knew the right thing to say, whether they understood all the religious garble-de-gook that sometimes just gets in the way, whether they had the proper background, Jesus didn’t care. Because they allowed their lives to be changed, and their actions reflected that difference. It was just like John the Baptist: what matters is the authenticity of repentance. What matters is the decision to choose a different direction and head out into it. What matters is allowing God to pick you up from the path you’re on, dust you off a bit, and set you back down on a holy path.

So where are you in this parable? Are you the one who says the right things, but doesn’t follow it up with action? Or maybe you are the one who doesn’t always know the right thing to say, the perfect words or the best phrase, but you’re living your life in the way of God’s call. It may be an inevitable tactic used by well-meaning parents, but for Jesus, “Do as I say and not as I do” runs completely counter to what God expects from us. Saying the right thing and not doing it is just not good enough, Jesus tells us. What matters is what you do.

So if you’re someone who’s already living the gospel life, well, congratulations. You are truly blessed. And you are rare. But if you’re like me, and like just about everyone I’ve ever met, and occasionally your words are worth more than your actions, there is still hope. We can go back to the shores of the Jordan River and listen to John the Baptist calling for us to repent, to change course, to head in a new direction. It is the direction that will demand us to match our lives with our words, to boldly live out the commands of our Lord when it would be so much easier to just say the right thing and move on. We can leave behind our hollow words, and lay claim to the fullness and grace of lives given to God, that we would all proclaim by our lives the greatness of God’s holy kingdom.

Posted on: Sun, 28 Sep 2008 7:48 am
Category: Sermons

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