Third Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 8C – Bill Harkins
Collect of the Day
Almighty God, you have built your Church upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone: Grant us so to be joined together in unity of spirit by their teaching, that we may be made a holy temple acceptable to you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
The Gospel: Luke 9:51-62
When the days drew near for Jesus to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to make ready for him; but they did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” But he turned and rebuked them. Then they went on to another village.
As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” But Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”
In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 3rd Sunday after Pentecost. The readings for today provide us a rich scriptural tapestry with at least one thread in common. In each of these passages we find a journey, and guides—or guidelines—for the road ahead. These guides, and the gift they give, are spirit-filled in nature, and this is the shared narrative. That same Spirit informs, infuses, and empowers the readings, and in turn each of us. Begging the question, who and where are our guideposts in a season in which the world seems to have gone off balance? How might our faith, reason, and tradition assist us? What might it mean to participate in the Body of Christ in this time, and this place, as we face today’s challenges of violence, polarization, and isolation? In the Gospel text we are reminded that our journey with Jesus requires a clarity of commitment and purpose that we may find harrowing, in both the culturally familiar and agricultural senses of the term…that is, to vex or distress, and to turn over and dig into the soil in preparation for planting, growth, and harvest. And, the word “harvest” is instructive, since the OE etymology of the word harrow is “HARWE” from which we also get our word harvest. Jesus’ reminder that while plowing the field to which we have been assigned we cannot look back, even for those tasks which ordinarily require our utmost attention, is harrowing indeed. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds us that “the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head,” and “let the dead bury the dead.” It’s a hard road indeed for those to whom Jesus says, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” These are not slogans likely to be on the recruiting posters for this band of disciples and missionaries, but upon further reflection, we might ask ourselves what these thematic lessons are really about. We know these recruits came from all lines of work, and represented in this and other ways a cross-section of the society, just as those gathered here each week. Somehow I find this comforting. I paid for college by working summers in a steel mill, mostly with welders. And though I was a bad welder, I came to appreciate their skills. Their patience with me and affection for me allowed me to get a wonderful blue collar education on the way to a transformative liberal arts education. I suspect each of the mostly blue collar disciples with Jesus brought particular gifts and strengths to their missionary work. And that these skills lent themselves to particular forms of ministry. So it is with us. In the passage from 2 Kings, Elijah and Elisha are also on a journey. I find the request from Elisha that he inherit a double share of Elijah’s spirit to be quite touching, and poignant. The mantle that fell as Elijah was taken up—an example of what we psychoanalytically trained theorists call a “transitional object”, kind of like a blanket or stuffed animal to which children become attached—is an outward and visible sign of the grace, and the spirit of and relationship with Elijah—and it guides Elisha on his journey. The image of Elisha, now empowered by this spirit guide, parting the waters and moving on, is symbolic of what can happen when we are guided by our teachers, mentors, and those whose lives live on in us. Where might we be called to journey, both individually and as a church, particularly in this season of transition for us all? And what and who shall guide us? We may have to give up some things we’d rather not give up, or go places we rather not go. This too can be harrowing in both sense of the term. We might have to become what one of my former professors called “liminal persons,” at home in threshold spaces. We find references to the spaces “in-between” throughout Judeo-Christian writings, by such authors as Martin Buber, Thomas Merton, C.S. Lewis, and James Hollis, a Jungian therapist and author who has said that these in-between spaces are, spiritually and otherwise, the most fruitful places of all: doorways and vestibules; thresholds to transitional passages; deep forest paths; Gothic cathedrals; and foyers, and seasons of our lives having, as they do, a liminal appeal and the magical promise of being called forth into new interaction. In the popular Harry Potter series by JK Rowling Harry journeys to the Hogwarts School by meeting the train at platform number 9 ¾; it is neither nine, nor ten, but rather a space “in between.” Tolkein’s “middle earth” is another such liminal space. Perhaps, dear one’s we are in such a season in our nation, and our church. Perhaps we have what we need, right here among us.
Tuesday I enjoyed sitting in on the Worship Committee meeting with those wonderful souls to whom you have entrusted this aspect of our common lives, and I felt so at home there, as I have always felt here. I was so moved by the gentle grace with which this committee, led by George, Katharine, and Ric, engaged the discussion about how best to keep this sacred space safe in light of recent events, including our sister Episcopal Church in Birmingham. I suspect there were many opinions in the room about gun rights, but the conversation was guided by two unspoken lessons I have learned as a priest, therapist, and through Al-anon. The first is that it is often more important to be in relationship than it is to be right. And the second is that we can, most of the time, love completely without complete understanding. Both of these are Gospel Good News.
After the meeting I went up toward Amicalola Falls to run on the trails, and usher in the summer solstice. The Southern Appalachians are dry these days, all the more so in contrast to our recent visit with family in cool and rainy Montana. Vistas in Montana’s big sky are vast, and everywhere. Here, the forest both obscures, and discloses, and long views are not easily achieved. Running on unfamiliar trails, it is good to have signposts along the way, cairns made of stone, and places to pause, and to rest. In the silences one may hear, and perhaps see, streams unheard before. As Wendell Berry wrote in this liminal and well, harrowing sonnet:
“Sit and be still
until in the time
of no rain you hear
beneath the dry wind’s
commotion in the trees
the sound of flowing
water among the rocks,
a stream unheard before,
and you are where
breathing is prayer.“
~ Wendell Berry, Sabbaths
Perhaps we are called to do likewise—to sit and be still, and listen and look for the transitional spaces in our lives where our gifts and graces might find life, and find it authentically. I have come to believe that there are often two kinds of journeys. The first is like that of Odysseus, the protagonist and hero of The Odyssey. Odysseus wants nothing more than to return to Ithaca, and to Penelope, and all that he knew, and had left, and longed to see again. Everything that happens—the movement of the entire narrative—is in the service of getting back home. Contrast this with, say, the journey of Sarah and Abraham, whose final destination was unknown even to them, and who paradoxically came “home” to a place they had never been before. It is a journey reminiscent of T.S. Eliot’s lovely lines from Little Gidding: “We shall not cease from exploration; and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.” In this paradoxical dialectic, only on the condition that Abraham relinquishes almost all that keeps him trapped in his past—and trying to get back to a familiar home—is it possible for him to move into the Promised Land, to go home to a place he has never been. And this is the nature of our summons as Christians, and it is the journey to pastures of wholeness, and abundance in the new normal. Some time ago a friend and colleague died after a courageous, year-long struggle with leukemia. A priest for more than forty years, he was gifted in the areas of ministry he most deeply loved; contemplative prayer, spiritual formation, and liturgy. He was a wise and gentle mentor to those of us younger in “priest years,” and a gift to each parish he served. We were also quite different in terms of our politics, and theology. After several hospital stays, two extensive rounds of chemotherapy, and a joyful but short lived remission, the cancer returned with new vigor. My colleague, in consultation with family and friends, decided to cease all but palliative care, and to die on his own life-giving terms. In one of our last conversations, watching the birds at the feeder on his back porch, he said “I have had so much love.” “Yes,” I replied, there are so many who love you and are grateful for you. I am one of them.” “That may be, “he replied, “but what I mean is that there are so many whom I have loved. I have so much gratitude for the love God has enabled me to give away.” We were quiet for a few minutes, and then he said, “Having made the decision not to continue with treatment has freed me to focus on the quality of my life rather than the longevity of it. It has given me the freedom to see in a new way how much love there has been, is now, and will be. Love is meant to be given away. That is what the Incarnation is all about.” We sat together in silence on his deck, in the early spring sun, with the goldfinches and nuthatches feasting at his birdfeeder. A few days later, he was gone. Among the truths my colleague helped me see was that bondage takes many forms, and we must be courageous in naming them. In the passage from Galatians and from the Gospel for this morning, we hear unequivocally that freedom is for love—and this requires release from any form of bondage that would keep us from giving this love away. Perhaps in our personal lives this may mean embracing the new chapter of life to which we are being invited. Perhaps as a church, it means letting go of business as usual during a season of unprecedented change. Paul emphasizes the work of the Holy Spirit—in the renewal and re-imagination of membership in community, and Jesus calls us to keep our eyes on the prize of life-giving love, in community, and on the fundamental focus of our journey as the Body of Christ in the world. We are rightly suspicious when we are called only to joy. Yes, and even amidst our struggle with various forms of bondage, we can find life-giving possibilities, in conversation with one another, as the Body of Christ in this place, and guided by the Holy Spirit in Her mischief, in love. Amen.