As I was thinking about today’s Gospel lesson this week, a question came to mind – If Jesus played in the NFL, would he stand or kneel during the National Anthem? Whatever choice he made, no matter how convicted he was in his decision, he’d disappoint or even infuriate a lot of people. As a leader or public figure, it is tough to have all eyes on you. And it’s difficult to know that no matter what decision you make, somebody is going to be upset. 

Such is the case with Jesus in our Gospel lesson today, as he is at or near the Temple in Jerusalem during the Passover Festival. If there was ever a time for the Pharisees to make their case against Jesus, it was now. Thousands of Jews make the pilgrimage from afar to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover Festival. Crowd-wise, imagine maybe New Orleans during Mardi Gras, albeit the Passover is a much holier occasion than that! But the Roman officials grew very nervous during this season because with the massive crowds came the likelihood of civil unrest, and perhaps even an uprising. Remember…Palestine was occupied and controlled by the Pagan nation of Rome. As such, politically speaking, Caesar was their king. This reality is something that the Jews had grown to live with because practically-speaking, they had no other choice. But they were resentful. And Rome knew that. The Roman officials knew how precarious it was to have tens-of-thousands of resentful people all gathered together to celebrate the moment in their history when the freedom-fighter Moses led them out of bondage to freedom. So, during the Passover Festival, Rome sent extra soldiers and officials to make sure that the Pax Romana was kept, and that any potential unrest would be squashed before it could gain momentum and lead to an insurrection.

Given this context, the Pharisees knew that this would be an opportune time to put an end to Jesus’ ministry one way or another. By posing the question to him - “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” – they knew that either answer he gave, he’d be in serious trouble. If he said, “No, it is not lawful to pay taxes to the emperor,” the Herodian Jews who were loyal to Herod - their Jewish client King to Rome- would be incensed, as would the Roman guards and officials who were nearby. But the Jews whose sense of nationalistic pride and fervor during Passover would likely have felt empowered and invigorated by Jesus’ bold answer. It is not unlikely that the two groups could have gone from arguing to shouting, to pushing and shoving, to all out rioting. This reality would have surely led to Jesus’ swift arrest by the Roman guards, so that the unrest could be avoided.

But the flip side of the coin is also true. If Jesus had said, “Yes, it is lawful to pay taxes to the emperor,” a riot could have just as easily broken out. The Pharisees knew that with this particular question in this particular context, Jesus was trapped – and either answer would lead to his demise. 

But Jesus knew this too, and he refused to participate in their either-or, black-and-white politics. Their way of thinking was that you can’t be a faithful Jew and still pay the tax to Rome. You must choose. And when you make your choice, you are also choosing to devalue or even dehumanize the people or institution that you chose against. There is no nuance in this sort of decision-making. And this lack of nuance is what leads to division into two distinct sides. And these two sides oftentimes resort to name-calling, blaming, shaming, and other means to attempt to destroy the credibility of the other side. 

Sadly, we are experiencing this sort of either-or culture in our current political climate in the United States. This unhealthy brand of politics leads to unfair assumptions about the other side that lack both nuance and compassion. Labels like racist, unpatriotic, greedy, and entitled get used to discredit and shame others. While battle lines are drawn in the sand, very few people are taking the time to listen to and be in relationship with one another. 

An interesting thing to note is how this encounter begins with the Pharisees complimenting Jesus. Now, it is highly debatable as to whether or not these compliments were genuine. But, one foundational principal in healthy dialogue or debate is to begin with the assumption that the other person or group has good intentions – even if we disagree with them. So, let’s just assume for a moment that the Pharisees, though they disagreed with Jesus on many things, also recognized that Jesus was “teacher [who was] sincere, [taught] the way of God in accordance with truth, [showed] deference to no one, and [didn’t] regard people with partiality.” Dare I say that the Pharisees have modeled for us a very healthy way to begin a potentially divisive dialogue with someone. As such – whether they meant it or not - they have given us a model for how to treat others with whom we might disagree. It allows for disagreement without demoralizing or demonizing. What a novel concept!

And Jesus’s response to the Pharisees also gives us a model for how to engage in dialogue and debate with others. One thing that is true about Jesus throughout the gospels – including his trial with Pontius Pilate where his life was at stake – is that he was always secure with who he was, what his mission was, and Who his King was. Jesus didn’t feel threatened by Caesar or Rome. He didn’t criticize Caesar. In psychoanalytic terms, Jesus is what Jungian analysts would call a well-differentiated presence. In family systems terms, Jesus is modeling what we call a non-anxious presence. And by modeling this highly differentiated and non-anxious behavior, Jesus was calling his followers – and even those who opposed him – to do the same. All of Jesus’ antagonists, whether it was from the religious or political realms, never threw Jesus off his game. They were never able to entice him to veer from his beliefs, his values, his mission, and his identity. As such, he embodied for us the principle that if we can be well-differentiated and non-anxious, we can be less threatened by opposing views, and can remain true to what and in Whom we believe. 

Perhaps right now, modeling this sort of behavior might be the best sort of witness we Christians can make to the world. How we engage and treat those with whom we disagree could very well be our most important outreach and evangelism to the world.

I say this often, but I just love our name, because it is a constant reminder for us who we believe our King to be. Caesar is not our king. The Republican party is not our king. The Democratic party is not our king. The Episcopal Church is not our king. Jesus Christ is King. He is our King and he is the King. May we be faithful disciples and followers of our King. And may our beliefs and actions in regards to Who our King is be an invitation for others to join us is the Good News of a life grounded in following Christ the King.

Today marks the end of our four-week journey through Paul’s letter to the Philippians. And in many ways, it ends just like it started – words of encouragement and inspiration in the midst of everyday struggles and conflict. This letter has a lot to offer to us as individuals, and more importantly, to us a Christian community, particularly when it comes to addressing church conflict. And it is a much more practical and accessible letter than, say, Paul’s letter to the Romans. Part of that has to do with the fact that Paul had a personal relationship with the Christians in Philippi. He was writing to a church that he had planted and to a congregation of people whom he knew and loved deeply. Paul’s affection for the Christians in Philippi is clear and palpable, and that is why this letter has been so uplifting for us to read the past few weeks. And that is also why Paul is so concerned about the interpersonal conflict that has emerged in this congregation of people who he loves so much. 

The conflict within the Philippian community that was alluded to a couple of weeks ago is disclosed in more detail in our lesson today. Two parishioners - Euodia and Syntyche (sin-tih-chee)– have apparently had a conflict that has disrupted the church in Philippi. In both passages, Paul urges these women and the rest of the Christians in Philippi to put aside their differences and to “let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” and to “be of the same mind of the Lord.” 

One of the classic questions that effective preachers are called to address is, “OK, but, what does that actually look like?” And Paul’s answer to that question when he first alluded to the conflict was, “Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.” And to give an even more concrete example, Paul goes on to say, “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, 

who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God 
as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave, 
being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,
he humbled himself 
and became obedient to the point of death-- 
even death on a cross.”

So, Paul’s approach to conflict management is, on the surface at least, anything but self-help. It is self-emptying. It is humble obedience – even to the point of, in Christ’s case, death on a cross. Remember, Christ didn’t die on the cross for his own sake. He did it for your sake, and for my sake – and for the sake of the whole world.

Speaking from his own personal experience, Paul asserts that the most faithful way to navigate conflict resolution within the Christian community is to “let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.” Of course, that is much easier said than done. Particularly when the mind of Christ Jesus led him to the cross. 

I think one that possible nuance in Paul’s words is that by seeking to be of the same mind of Christ, those who find themselves to be in conflict with one another will ultimately be of the same mind as one another. That is because rather than trying to change someone else’s mind, they are seeking the will of Christ’s mind. In other words, we are to ground our unity in Christ’s will, not our own. If I am at odds with you – rather than trying to figure out which one of us is right – we are better served to both seek unity in the righteousness of Christ. What would Christ have us do? Most of the time, the answer that Christ will have for us – which we find in scripture and the tradition of the church – will show that neither of us were grounding our argument in the mind of Christ, but rather, our own.

What is clear from Paul’s letter to the Philippians is that he loves them deeply. And he loves and cares for the two women who are at odds with one another. But rather than trying to determine which one of them is correct, he simply pleads with the church in Philippi to “stand firm in the Lord, work out their salvation with fear and trembling, … and to help these women. For it is God who as at work in you.”

If there was ever a time for us to ponder these words from Paul in our hearts, it is now. Thankfully, our parish church isn’t mired in conflict these days. But our country feels like it is as divided now as it ever has been. With the 24-hour news cycle, talk radio, and social media, our political differences are more amplified than ever before. Yes, Paul’s letter was to a particular congregation in Philippi, not an entire nation. But I believe that the letter can be applied to our context today during this election cycle. The risk we run when the political climate gets hostile is that the hostility can find its way into our hearts, and into our families and into our churches. And that is when the most painful division can occur.

The Episcopal Church is a broad tent so to speak. We are what I call a “purple church” – we have our fair share of red and blue. And this diversity can be a blessing for ourselves and our communities if we allow it to be. But the only way that our political diversity will be a blessing is if, in the midst of our diversity, we, at the end of the day, seek the mind of Christ in all things. Our primary identity should always be our baptismal identity, even above our familial, national, political, and denominational identities. Our unity in Christ is where our salvation lies – for ourselves, our families, our parish churches, and our communities. 

And Paul reminds us that seeking the mind of Christ is to, above all else, look not to [our] own interests, but to the interests of others.” This may sound simple, but ever since the Fall in the Garden of Eden, it is the hardest thing for human beings to do. But when we put the righteousness of Christ above our own righteousness, and the interests of others ahead of our own, that is when the miracle of Christ’s mercy, justice, grace, and love are embodied. And that is when, to use Paul’s words, we can experience that “the Lord is near.” And that is when we will be able to, with joy in our hearts, “rejoice in the Lord always…[and] not worry about anything.” And that is when “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard [our] hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” And finally, that is when “the God of peace will be with [us.]” 

The letter to the Philippians is the closest thing to a love letter that Paul ever wrote. It is a joy-and hope-filled letter that overflows with Paul’s gratitude for God and the people of the church he founded in Philippi. The irony of it is, Paul wrote this letter while he was incarcerated. How could someone who was locked away in a prison cell be so positive, gracious, and full of hope? I believe that the answer has to do with identity. As we heard in today’s portion of the letter, Paul testifies that his identity – his sense of self-worth – is grounded in his belief that “Christ Jesus has made [him] his own.” So for Paul, the only person he was imprisoned to was Christ himself – he even claimed as much in his letter to the Ephesians when he wrote, “I Paul am a prisoner for Christ Jesus.”

Paul goes to great lengths in his discussion on identity; among many things, he saw his conversion story to be profoundly wrapped up in it. He points out that prior to his conversion, he took great pride in his previous religious identity. He was every bit as “religious” prior to his conversion to Christ as he was afterwards. He was “circumcised on the eight day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless.” It is clear that prior to his conversion, Paul’s sense of self-worth was tied up in his family and religious identity. Within his context, he was a person on privilege – he knew it, he relished in it, and he exploited it.

As Paul was writing to his church in Philippi from his prison cell, he must have been reflecting a good bit on his identity. Prison will do that to you. Incarceration isn’t only about detaining someone – it’s not just about physical imprisonment. Incarceration also to strips prisoners of their sense of self-worth, confidence, and identity. There is an incarcerated man with whom I correspond via email and letters. If I leave off his inmate number, it will not make it to him. In terms of the prison system, his identity is his inmate number. And the psychological effects of being stripped of one’s freedom and sense of identity can be debilitating.  

So, as Paul was reflecting on his identity from his prison cell, two things emerged. First, Paul wasn’t going to let his imprisonment define him. In other words, once Paul had come to know Jesus Christ, Paul’s understanding of freedom drastically changed. Once he began his missionary journeys, Paul actually spent a good amount of time in prison. Yet the only imprisonment he felt was when he referred to himself as a “prisoner for Christ Jesus.” For Paul, true freedom was in his relationship with Jesus, no matter where he was or what circumstances he found himself in. As he wrote to the church in Galatia - “For freedom, Christ has set us free.”

The second theme that emerged from Paul’s imprisonment was his newfound familial and religious identity. After his conversion to Christ, Paul had an entirely new understanding of privilege. Previously, Paul relished in the privilege into which he was born. As he said, “if anyone has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more.” He came from the “right” people, the right tribe, and he zealously embraced the family – biologically and religiously - into which he was born. If anybody would have made his parents proud, it would have been Paul. He carried his familial flag with pride, confidence, and vigor.

So imagine their shock, perhaps even their disappointment, when Paul goes on to say, “Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ…I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him.” Paul’s newfound identity in Christ ran much deeper than any previous identity he had. Paul was steeped in privilege, yet once he met Christ, none of it mattered to him. His baptism in Christ profoundly reshaped how he understood himself and how he understood salvation history. 

Earlier this morning, we baptized Curry Alexandra Torrey into Christ’s Body. If there was ever a baptism text, it is this section of Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Above all else, Christian baptism is about the reshaping of our identity. As we are grafted into Christ’s Body, we are actually claiming the Church as our primary family. Notice that when we baptize someone, we don’t say their last name – their family name. You may have heard the term “Christian name” used when referring to someone’s first name. Another term for that is our “baptismal name.” Notice that popes don’t have a last name. When they are consecrated, they are given a new name – Francis, Benedict, John Paul, and the like. Their old family names are replaced with a new one. This detail about names is oftentimes overlooked, but it is a radical reshaping of identity. In baptism, we are dying to our old selves and rising to our new life in Christ. Our old selves – our old identities – are washed away in the waters of baptism. And when we rise up out of the water of baptism, we are born anew. We have a new name and a new identity. 

Paul’s testimony to the Philippians comes at an important time for us. For many people in our country today – including, or perhaps even especially, Christians – one’s primary identity is their political affiliation. With it being election season, this way of identifying one’s self – this way for finding community, meaning, and purpose is at an all-time high. We fly flags, put stickers on our cars, and put up signs to indicate where and to whom our allegiance lies. 

There will always be multiple political parties and multiple ways to approach making our country thrive. That is the spirit of democracy. And good citizenship requires that we actively and responsibly engage in the political process to make our democracy thrive. But as Christians, our calling is to first be grounded in our baptismal identity. Our identity as members of Christ’s Body should always be our starting point, and dare I say, should supersede our identity as Americans as well as our biological families. It is from the baptismal font that our politics and relationships should flow.

The spiritual turning point for the Apostle Paul was when he came to realize that his political citizenship in the Roman Empire and his familial citizenship in the tribe of Benjamin were not where his true citizenship lay. The Apostle Paul understood this and lived this theological and existential reality better than anyone - so much so that he could be locked away in a prison cell and write one of the most joy- and hope-filled letters in all of the New Testament. He could undergo stoning, torture, and imprisonment and still “press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” This profound conversion – this radical transformation – is what we as Christians are called to pursue. It is counterintuitive to, as Paul says, “regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” But, Lord willing, what we lose will pale in comparison to what we will gain. Thanks be to God.

Though our readings are from Paul’s letter to the Philippians and the Gospel of Matthew today, I would like to talk about the letter of James. Our Friday morning Men’s Bible Study has been studying this letter for the past several months, and we are going to finish it this coming Friday. We have had some really good discussions on the final chapter of James the past few weeks, so that has been where my heart and mind have been as of late.

Throughout history, many people have called for the Letter of James to be   removed from the Bible.  Martin Luther referred to it as the “Epistle of  Straw” because of James’ seemingly anti-Pauline assertion that “faith             without works is dead.” Personally, I’m glad that James’ letter wasn’t nixed from the biblical canon, because this short little letter tucked away in the back of the Bible challenges us – actually it provokes us – to live out the faith that we speak of. And James’ assertion that “the prayer of the righteous can be powerful and effective” is one example of how we are being challenged by James to embody our faith. As a people of faith, our prayer is our response to God’s prevenient grace. As followers of Jesus, our prayer is our faithful work. 

As you may know, after I graduated from seminary, I completed a yearlong chaplain residency at Northside Hospital in Atlanta. On my very first day of work, I stayed late so that I could be trained for the overnight shift. I wasn’t there thirty minutes before the Code Blue alarm went off. Code Blue means that someone in the hospital is in cardiac arrest. Along with the obvious team of medical professionals, chaplains are called to the scene as well. I arrived on the scene to find about 10-12 nurses frantically working to revive a young woman named Monica who went into cardiac arrest after delivering a newborn baby. I was disoriented and scared. It was my first time seeing something like this, CPR being performed in real life – not on a dummy or on TV – and somebody’s life slipping away before my very eyes. And the tragedy of it all was overwhelming. As the nurses worked tirelessly to save Monica’s life, I felt a surge of inadequacy come over me. What was I supposed to do? How could I help? At that point, all I could do was pray. And so that’s what I did. I stood off to the side, I bowed my head, and I prayed fervently for Monica, her family, and the medical staff. And then it dawned on me – as a chaplain at the hospital, my work was to pray faithfully. And as Christians, our work is to pray faithfully, and James reminds us that the prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective.

An important thing to note in this last section of James’ letter is his emphasis on prayer within the church community. In ancient times, sickness was usually linked with sin. Since they didn’t have the advanced medical understanding of disease and illness, they attributed it to punishment from God. And oftentimes, those who were sick were cast out from communities - alienated until they either got well or died. But James takes this practice and turns it on its head. Rather than looking at sickness solely as a matter between the sick person and God, James asserts that the sick person should “call the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord.” James is inviting us to invite our church community to  participate in the healing process.                      

You may have noticed the paschal candle, my white chasuble, and the white altar settings this morning, and wondered what that is all about. The paschal candle and white liturgical color are used on Sundays when there is a baptism. Given the current climate, we are now having to do small, family-only baptisms at 8:00am on Sundays. Today, we baptized Amelia Eleanor Futrell, a precious little three-month-old baby. One would never know by looking at her, but Amelia has a hole in her heart. This week, she is being taken to Sacred Heart, Pensacola for more evaluations. It is possible that they will have to air lift her to Shands Hospital in Gainesville for emergency surgery to repair the hole. If not, she will still go there in the near future for that surgery. Needless to say, the baptism this morning was particularly special given the circumstances. We as a church community were doing the good, faithful work of praying fervently for Amelia, as well as her parents Jonathon and Jennifer. As James calls us to do, “we prayed over Amelia and anointed her with oil.” And we grafted her into Christ’s Body through the sacrament of Holy Baptism, where she was sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Roman Catholic New Testament scholar Luke Timothy Johnson points out that what James is saying when he talks about healing and anointing prayer is “There is no gap between physical and spiritual healing. They happen together. The [anointing] oil gains power from the human hands that apply it and that, by reaching across pain and loneliness, re-establish(es) the solidarity of the community. The prayer, likewise, is said “over” the sick person as a sign of the community’s commitment and support in the time of crisis.” That certainly was the case at our service for Holy Baptism this morning.                      

At Northside Hospital, I found that the threshold of pain and loneliness can be extremely wide, but reaching across that threshold to simply hold a hand in prayer can bring about profound healing in many ways. And I have found that here at Christ the King, among many things, we are a prayerful community. Even if many of us are praying via Livestream or Zoom, we are still praying as a community.

We are a church that prays for one another and with one another. I know that there are many among you today that can attest to the physical and spiritual healing power of prayer. Many of us have experienced individually and as a church community James’ claim that the prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective.

About a month after that harrowing first night being the “on call” chaplain at Northside Hospital  I was getting on the elevator to go up and do my afternoon rounds. As I stepped   on the elevator, I saw Monica’s mother,           husband and eight-year-old daughter. They were headed up to see Monica, who after a month-long stay in the intensive care unit, had improved to the point to where she could be admitted to a regular unit. We smiled as we rode up the elevator, and I mentioned to Monica’s  husband how happy I was that Monica was doing so well, and how glad I was to see them. He said   that prayer had pulled her and pulled them through this crisis. I         find it interesting that after a month of witnessing the cutting-edge, intensive care that his wife received in the hospital’s state-of-the-art critical care facility, that he attributed his wife’s survival to the ancient practice of prayer. 

The doctors, nurses, and medical professionals did their faithful work, we in the Christian community did our faithful work, and God did God’s faithful work. Our work is to pray…God’s work is to respond. God’s response may not always be the one we had hoped and prayed for. But one result we can  trust in is that prayer has the amazing power to draw people closer to one another and closer to God. And when that happens, a special kind of healing takes place. Prayer is the faithful work that we do. And I have become a firm believer that the prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective.

I don’t know about you, but I’m inclined to side with the first group of laborers. I understand why they were upset…I would be too. They arrived early and worked hard in the field all day long, yet were paid the exact same amount as those who arrived late and only worked one hour. Yes, they got paid exactly the amount that they agreed upon. But if they had known ahead of time that they could have gotten paid the same amount for only working an hour, perhaps they would have hung back when the landowner was picking laborers at 5:00 in the morning. 

Of course, when we hear this parable today, we do so with the benefit of hindsight. We know on whose side Jesus stands, and the message he is delivering. Through the character of the generous landowner – Jesus puts those who grumble about getting their fair share in their place, reminding them that the “last will be first and the first will be last.” 

So, when I hear parables like this, I end up eating my slice of humble pie, I hope to see things more like Jesus does, and I strive to once again be transformed by Gospel. But this is terribly difficult to do when we inhabit a world that lives by a different set of values than those that Jesus calls us to. 

Today’s parable isn’t the first time in the Bible that the so-called “righteous” were upset about others getting more than their “fair share.” It is clearly human nature to be competitive and to keep score. In our story from Jonah, we see first-hand the difference between the nature of God and the nature of humankind. When the Ninevites responded to Jonah’s call for them to turn from their evil ways, God decided not to obliterate them. God saw that they had repented, so God did what God does. In the angry Jonah’s very own words, “God was merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.” 

But our text tells us that this merciful response from God “was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry.” So much so, that he asked God to take his life from him. Think about that for a moment. Jonah was so eaten up with bitterness and anger that he would have rather died than live to see the Ninevites escape God’s punishment. Like most of us, Jonah wasn’t satisfied with his own redemption. He wanted the Ninevites to get what he felt they deserved. I assume that Jonah was operating under the false assumption that God chose him – and chose Israel – to be God’s people because they deserved it.

Yet God’s economy isn’t a zero-sum game. God’s mercy towards the Ninevites didn’t negate God’s mercy towards Jonah, the Israelites, or anybody else. With God, there is simply enough love, grace, justice, and mercy to go around. Sadly, this Truth isn’t seen as Good News to folks like Jonah, the laborers in the vineyard, or perhaps even us.

The world we live in now is very different from the world in which Jonah and Jesus lived their earthly lives. But human beings were and are still human beings, no matter where or when we live. And this truth about human nature is what allows our ancient scriptures to remain relevant in any context. So, Jonah’s anger over God’s non-competitive economy of grace is also my anger. Jonah’s story is my story, and our story.

And I am also very much like those who heard Jesus tell the parable of the laborers in the vineyard. I never expect a handout – but I do expect to get my fair share. I have always and will continue to work hard and expect to earn some sort of reward, whatever that is. But this “work ethic” isn’t necessarily biblical or uniquely Judeo-Christian. But there was and is a strand from the Protestant Reformation that indeed holds hard work and its subsequent reward as being a Christian value. 

The Puritan Protestants who aligned themselves with John Calvin believed in predestination – in other words, God had predetermined who would be “saved” when Jesus returned. This was a Protestant response to what they believed to be the excessive ceremony and sacramentalism of the Catholic Church. The clergy of the Church had gained too much power and influence, and too much emphasis was being placed on salvation through the sacraments. So, Calvin proposed that our salvation is not in the clergy’s hands or the church’s hands, but in God’s hands. I agree with Calvin on this point. The problem is, his followers who came after him took his understanding of “God is in charge” to a different place. Though they no longer were anxious about their salvation being tied up in the sacramental life of the church, they were still anxious. “How will I know if I am one of the ones chosen by God? If my salvation doesn’t hinge on my attending and paying for the sacrament of confession every week, what can do to ensure that I am saved?”

Many of the post-Calvin Puritan Protestants believed that the answer to this existential dilemma lies in hard work and pious living. If you work hard and live a pious life, you will be rewarded here on earth. You will have enough to feed yourself and your family, and you will always have enough. The earthly benefits you receive through your own initiative and hard work will be a sign to you that you indeed are chosen by God. If you do not have a good work ethic, or, if you do have a good work ethic but for some reason still can’t make your ends meet for you and your family, that is a sign that you are not one of the ones chosen by God. 

Many of these Puritan Protestants emigrated to what is now the United States with this philosophy in mind. One could argue that this country was founded on that principle. German economist and theologian Max Weber addressed this in 1904 when he wrote the now classic “The Protestant Work Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.” There is a direct link between old Puritan Protestant work ethic and the current Prosperity Gospel we now hear and see on television and the internet. Financial success is a sign of God’s favor and blessing. The more faithful you are to God, the more financially successful you will be.

If we’re honest with ourselves, many of us probably abide by the Puritan Protestant work ethic understanding of salvation at one level or another. I know that if I am not careful, that I do. I am drawn to it because I can control how hard I work. I’m like the laborers in the vineyard who wanted control over their wages. And I want control over my salvation. How nice to be able to have a formula to follow – whether it is through the sacraments or through hard work – to ensure our salvation.

For centuries, human beings have wrestled with this existential question of what salvation is, and what we can do to attain it. Perhaps one way to think about salvation doesn’t have anything to do with what happens to us after we die. Perhaps salvation looks like those grumbling laborers in the vineyard coming to work the next day, and having the exact same thing happen in terms of hours worked and wages paid. But this time, after everybody got paid, they rejoiced and threw a feast with all of the workers, no matter who had worked how long. And as they sat at the banquet table with one another, those who had grumbled the day before recognized how much better it feels to celebrate with gratitude than to grumble with resentment. Being freed from the bondage of control and resentment seems like salvation to me. Our lessons today steer us away from anxiety about our or anybody’s else’s eternal salvation - not because of who we are, or what we do, but because of who God is, and what God does. 

Our two-part lesson on reconciliation and forgiveness continues this week. In last week’s lesson, Jesus offered step-by-step instructions for conflict resolution between members of the community. In today’s lesson, Peter, in response to Jesus’ instructions, asks Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” It’s almost as if Peter is a tad bit indignant; as if he really wants to say, “Yes, but there’s got to be limits, right? Like, how many times am I supposed to forgive somebody before I finally say, ‘enough is enough?’” That’s what I love about Peter – he so often represents and expresses what is true about human nature. He asks Jesus the tough questions that the other disciples seem to be afraid to ask. After all, don’t we all have limits to how many times we are willing to forgive someone before we finally choose to wash our hands of the relationship? 

There has been much scholarly debate over Jesus’ response to Peter – whether the Greek is best translated as “77 times or seventy times seven.” What shouldn’t be lost in the debate is that regardless of which option you choose, Jesus’ answer means “an awful lot.” In his commentary on this passage, St. Augustine of Hippo points out that the number seventy-seven represents the number of generations that passed between Adam and Jesus. St. Ambrose of Milan gets into that sort of interpretation as well, and goes into great detail about the Jewish tradition of Jubilee, sabbath, and how they are connected with one another, with Jesus, and forgiveness. The Cliffs Notes version is this – the timing of God’s incarnation in Jesus wasn’t random. The birth of Jesus came at a time of generational Jubilee, and his very own birth in the 77th generation after Adam means that in Jesus, God was ushering in redemption from the Fall. In Jesus, God was ushering in redemption and forgiveness that is beyond measure – a redemption and forgiveness that doesn’t keep count or score… a forgiveness that knows no limits. 

As Jesus is often apt to do, he chooses to respond to Peter’s inquiry by telling a parable. Jesuit scholar Daniel Harrington points out that with all the layers of the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant, the ultimate takeaway is this: “If God places no limits [on forgiveness], humans cannot place a limit [either].” My initial response to Harrington is along the lines of something Peter might say, “I’m glad that God thinks so highly of me. But I’m not God; and I shouldn’t be held to such a high standard!” But the more I think about it, the more I am reminded that Jesus bridged the chasm between God and humankind. So, seventy-seven generations after the Fall, God chose to literally enflesh the justice and mercy that the prophets preached so powerfully about in the generations prior. God chose to enflesh forgiveness. So, thanks to Jesus’ redemptive work on the cross, I don’t have to be as good as God.

One thing that many Christians today turn a blind eye to is God’s justice. I know that I tend to preach more on God’s love, mercy, and grace than I do God’s justice. I think that is because when we get down to it, the idea that we might be held accountable by God makes us uncomfortable – as it should. But who likes to come to church and hear about things that make us uncomfortable?

Following his remark about this parable’s lesson about our not placing limits on forgiveness, Daniel Harrington goes on to say that the parable teaches us that “… those who place limits on forgiving others will have limits placed on their forgiveness by God.” In Warren Carter’s commentary on Matthew, he concludes that this parable is reminding us that “God’s empire is like any other reign in that there is accountability and punitive consequences for disobeying the ruler. To ignore Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness means eschatological consequences.” In other words, our God of mercy is also a God of justice.

When I hear folks discuss their final reckoning with God, the conversation usually ends up being about things like one’s behavior, or good deeds. In other words, I think most Christians, whether they realize it or not, believe that God is keeping account of us based on how well we behave, or how many good deeds we perform. It’s as if God has a form akin to those community service forms our youth have to turn in to their high schools at the end of each year. In order to be promoted to the next grade, they have to show that they have completed a certain number of community service hours. And that is not necessarily a bad thing...I actually think that it is a good thing. But that is how our schools operate. That is not how God operates.

So, in our lesson today, Jesus doesn’t speak about community service hours, doing good deeds, or even being a nice, good person. Might it be possible that our Father in heaven won’t ask us about those things on our day of reckoning? What if God’s only question with regards to our behavior or how we treated others had to do with just one thing – forgiveness? In our lifetimes, were we radically committed to reconciliation with God and one another? Did we forgive others even when our pride told us that they didn’t deserve our forgiveness? Equally important, did we get on our knees and ask God for God’s forgiveness?

Referring to both last week’s and this week’s lessons, Daniel Harrington points out that “the implications of Matthew 18:15-35 for life within the church today are great. The text outlines a clear procedure designed to help the sinner recognize the sin and return to the community. It roots reconciliation and forgiveness of sins in God’s mercy, and thus reveals the foolishness of those who try to set limits on their willingness to forgive others.” Harrington’s point here is important on a number of levels.  But I think the most crucial thing that he is reminding us that the standard that God holds us to regarding reconciliation and forgiveness is impossible if we are left to our own devices. Since the fall of humankind, it is simply too difficult for us to forgive others without rooting it in God’s mercy and love. We can’t do it by ourselves. As much as we try to act like it, we are not God. When we try to rely on our own goodness and kindness, we end up, like Peter, keeping count and placing limits.

Christian ethicist Stanley Hauerwas points out that when Peter asked Jesus how many times we should forgive somebody, he was asking that question with the assumption that it was always he who would be in the position of forgiving. In other words, Peter, whether he realized it or not, was assuming the position of power in his relationships. But what Jesus was reminding him (and us) of is that the starting place for our being able to forgive others is our recognition of just how much we have been forgiven. The grace, mercy, and love that God has already shown to us is immeasurable. We can never keep up or keep track. If we can make this incredibly humbling reality our starting point, then any self-righteousness we have within us can begin to be transformed into gratitude. 

Humility and gratitude are not only the key to healthy relationships here and now, they are the key to our eternal life in Christ. Hauerwas goes on to say that, “We must remember, if we are to be peacemakers capable of confronting one another with our sins… [we first have to recognize that we ourselves have been forgiven] and therefore, we are members of a community of the forgiven. To be sinned against or to know that we have sinned requires that we have the habits of speech that make it possible to know what it is to be a sinner. On only this basis do we have the capacity to avoid arbitrariness of judgment that results from the assumption we must be our own creator. That is why it is so important for the church to continually attend to the language necessary to name sin as sin. Lying, adultery, and stealing are not just wrong or just mistakes. They are sin.”

So, our ability to forgive others rests in our recognition that we ourselves are sinners who have been forgiven. Not only are we forgivers. We are forgiven. And thankfully our God is a God who doesn’t keep count. As the ancient Eastern Orthodox prayer goes, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” And in gratitude and humility, may we show that same mercy to others.

At our vestry retreat earlier this year, we did an Organization Development exercise to discern what we do well and what we don’t do so well at Christ the King. One of the top vote-getters for what we do not so well was “Conflict Management.” But before we beat ourselves up too much over this weakness of ours, let’s take a look at the world around us. Where are we seeing healthy conflict management? Who is modeling for us how to effectively navigate our differences of opinion, approach, or outlook? Certainly not in Washington, or on Facebook or Twitter. And sadly, throughout her history, the Christian Church hasn’t been immune to poor conflict resolution either. And that remains the case today on both the macro and micro levels. 

Conflict is as old as humankind, and scripture helps remind us of that. For the people of Israel, the Levitical law prescribed specific ways to handle conflict within the tribe so to speak. And as we heard from Ezekiel this morning, the prophets had their own unique way of urging mutual accountability among the house of Israel. And while the prophets tended to advocate for a very public reckoning of wrongdoing, Jesus invites his followers to start small before we go big with our grievances. 

After two weeks of hearing about the call to discipleship – proclaiming for ourselves who we say that Jesus is and then being called to lose our lives in order to save them, this week and next week are about conflict resolution and forgiveness. And I’d venture to say that these two topics are at the heart of Jesus’ call for us to take up our crosses and follow him. And they are embodiments of what it looks like to lose our lives in order to save them. And that is why everybody – not just Christ the King Episcopal Church – struggles with managing conflict. Not many of us are willing to lose our lives in order to save them. The grace and humility that Jesus requires of his followers is radical. It requires a deep transformation within us, one that rejects the competitive and litigious nature of our culture. But that is why Jesus reminds us that when two or three of us have the courage to work on sorting out our conflict, he will bless us with his presence. 

In his commentary entitled Matthew and the Margins, Warren Carter asserts that this section in Matthew’s gospel is crucial for our understanding Jesus’ call to discipleship. He says that ‘Given this difficult existence, disciples must not cause one another to fall or sin. [We] must care for one another, actively vigilant in guarding one another as God guards [us]. [And] in this [we] embody God’s love. Against this backdrop, Carter goes on to say that “despite such exhortations, conflict is inevitable among humans… How a community handles such conflict is crucial to its survival.”

And in our lesson today, Jesus gives us a model for handling conflict within our community. It’s almost as if Jesus was anticipating the era of grandstanding that comes in the form of group emails and social media. Email and text messaging has forever changed the nature of communication because now, you can send a “letter” to hundreds – even thousands - of people in a matter of seconds. Keep in mind that in Jesus’ context, what we now call a “good ole fashioned hand-written letter” wasn’t an easy option for most. Yes, letters were written – see the Apostle Paul – but it was a much less common and a much more laborious process. It required first and foremost, literacy. It also required difficult-to-obtain scrolls. So, in Jesus’ context, the primary mode of communication was verbal. If you had an issue with someone, your best bet was to go speak with them by yourself, and ideally, the conflict could be resolved. It sounds so simple. But you and I know better. Such conversations can be incredibly difficult. So difficult, in fact, that oftentimes we choose to remain in or avoid conflict rather than have that difficult conversation.

In her book “Fierce Conversations: Achieving Success at Work and in Life One Conversation at a Time,” Susan Scott says, “Our work, our relationships, and our lives succeed or fail one conversation at a time. While no single conversation is guaranteed to transform a company, a relationship, or a life, any single conversation can. Speak and listen as if this is the most important conversation you will ever have with this person. It could be. Participate as if it matters. It does.” In her books, TED Talks, and executive coaching business, Scott advocates for radical transparency, and creating a culture where “fierce conversations” are the norm. She believes that so much of our failure in relationships – whether it is in business or our personal lives – has to do with our unwillingness to have difficult, honest conversations with one another. We are simply too polite or passive aggressive. We would rather send a text or an email than have a face to face conversation. I know that I am guilty as charged on that account.

But the use of the word “fierce” in Scott’s book isn’t to be confused with anger, accusation, or self-righteousness. The fierceness has to do with summoning up the inner courage to see Christ in the face of that person with whom you have an issue. Apparently, some of our earliest bishops were faced with mediating conflict just as they are today. Augustine of Hippo – also a bishop in the 4th century –framed conflict resolution with love when he wrote, “Why scold him? Because you are sorry for yourself or because he’s sinned against you? God forbid. If you do it out of self-love, you do less than nothing. If you do it out of love for him, you are doing something very good indeed. In any case, notice that the love you show is for him and not yourself.”

Whether it is from Christ’s very own mouth, or from some of the Early Church’s most revered Bishops, the message for Christians is clear – we are to handle interpersonal conflict with humility, love, and grace. It is not simply a good idea, it is essential for our salvation – as individuals and as the Church - for Christ says that “whatever we bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever we loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” In other words, on judgement day, we will have to answer to God for our unresolved conflicts with our fellow Christians. As Jesus taught us to pray, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” This wasn’t a suggestion from Jesus, it weas a command.

By approaching our sister or brother in Christ in search of reconciliation, not only are we doing a good thing for ourselves. We are also giving that person an opportunity to participate in the reconciliation that Christ calls us to. We are giving our sister or brother an opportunity to offer, ask for, or receive forgiveness, as we do the same. The greatest gift that we offer someone might not only be our forgiveness if they have wronged us. The greatest gift could also be the opportunity to offer their forgiveness to us. Sometimes people need to be invited to forgive. And such an invitation can relieve them of so much anger and hurt that they have been carrying. The joy of reconciliation isn’t just in being forgiven. It is also in having the sacred privilege to forgive others.  

Clearly the world is not looking to the United States as a model for healthy conflict resolution. And clearly we are not able to look to our secular leaders on either side of the aisle to learn how to address conflict. So where will we learn? Where will our children learn? Is the Church modeling for us and our children how to deal with conflict? Our scriptures and the teachings of the Early Church give us clear instruction on the importance of conflict resolution, as well as ways to go about it. Yet, unfortunately, the Church through the centuries and still today has not been a model for healthy conflict mediation and resolution. Our vestry acknowledged that this past January. But that doesn’t mean that we have to throw in the towel and say that as long as there are people, there will be conflict. Actually, that saying is true, but that doesn’t mean that the conflict can’t be healthy. What if people knew the Church as that place where people resolve their problems in a healthy, loving way? That may sound naïve or grandiose. But one might say the same about the resurrection.  

As always, it is best to start small – in our own homes, and within our own family systems. That will give us good practice for when we end up in conflict with those within our parish. What if we as a parish made it an explicit priority to be outliers in the world on conflict? What if we as a parish made it a priority not to handle our conflict in hurtful, unhealthy ways? What if we took Jesus’ instruction about conflict mediation to heart? It would likely be the hardest work we have ever done, because as we all know, conflict resolution is incredibly hard work. To use Susan Scott’s words, it is “fierce” work. But it is none less than gospel work, and as Jesus says, our salvation depends on it. And good, hard, faithful work such as this is perhaps be the best outreach, mission, pastoral care, and evangelism that Christ the King could offer to our ourselves, our community, and the world. 

In her sermon last week, Emily said, “[The fact] that Jesus himself was subject to suffering and death…allows God in Christ … to be present with suffering in a way that those focused on avoiding suffering and death cannot be.” And this understanding of who Jesus is carries us perfectly to our gospel lesson for today. For those disciples who were still wrestling with Jesus’ question “Who do you say that I am,” this teaching from Jesus was a difficult pill to swallow. Upon hearing Jesus say that he must undergo great suffering and be killed, Peter rebuked Jesus – “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” Just moments prior, Jesus had praised Peter, saying that it was on him that Jesus would build his church, and it was to him that Jesus would give the keys of the kingdom of heaven. But Peter didn’t even have time to put his brand-new keys to the kingdom on his keychain before Jesus said, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me…”. 

Peter couldn’t bear the idea that Jesus would suffer and die the way Jesus described. And whether he had the time to make the connection or not, ultimately, Peter couldn’t bear the idea that he too would have to suffer if he continued as a follower of Jesus. “Victory” over one’s enemies, and victory over the powers of sin, death, and evil, would have to be understood in an entirely new way. And honestly, who could blame Peter for not wanting the person for whom he had given up everything to follow to suffer and die? And who could blame Peter for not wanting to suffer himself? Isn’t it human nature to do all that we can to protect and preserve our lives? Like Peter, don’t we, at least most of the time, set our minds not on divine things but on human things?

After his quick conversation with Peter, Jesus clearly decided that he needed to have a… shall we say... “come to Jesus” discussion with his disciples. This would be a pivotal moment in his relationship with his disciples, as he told them they’d have to deny themselves and take up their cross in order to follow him. They would have to lose their lives for Christ’s sake.

Last week, the question for us was “Who do we say that Jesus is”…meaning, “How do each of us answer this question for ourselves? Today, we are faced with a similar sort of question. We know how the disciples ultimately responded to Jesus’ challenge to take up their cross and follow him. We know how they chose to lose their lives for the sake of Jesus, and how that led to eternal life for them. But what does it really look like for us to deny ourselves and take up our cross to follow Jesus? How does something as radical as “losing our lives in order to find them” manifest itself in our daily lives?  

What comes to mind for me is a discussion that I was a part of last week. I was on a congregational development training call with my fellow novices in the Order of the Ascension, and the issue of “high church vs. low church” emerged. Our facilitator, Fr. Robert Gallagher, has been a congregational development consultant in the Episcopal Church for decades. There isn’t much in the church that he hasn’t seen, whether it was directly as a priest or as a consultant to other parishes. In this discussion, he asked us to quit allowing the distinction between “high church” and “low church” to have any power or meaning for us. Robert believes that at the heart of the “high church-low church” controversy is people’s aversion to religion. So, when someone says that something is “too high church” or “too catholic,” what they likely mean is that it feels too religious. And the same goes for someone saying that something is “too low church, or too charismatic or evangelical.” Really, it likely just feels “too religious” to that person as well. 

For the most part, in the Episcopal Church, we have cornered the market on not being “too religious.” That is oftentimes what draws people to us. Former catholics like us because we’re not too catholic. Former evangelicals like us because we’re not too evangelical. Many people like us as much for what we are not than for what we are. That has been the case for the Episcopal Church for as long as I can remember. 

Growing up as a 4th or 5th generation Episcopalian, I was very aware of the fact that while my family was an active church-going family, we weren’t particularly religious. I came to recognize this most when I would spend the night with a friend and attended church with them. I’ll never forget attending First Baptist Church one Sunday with my friend and thinking something along the lines of, “Wow, these people talk and sing about Jesus very differently than we do.” It made me very uncomfortable. In an odd way, it all just felt too religious to me. Interestingly, I never attended a catholic church with any of my friends, but when I went in their homes, it also felt very different to me. There would be a crucifix hanging somewhere in plain sight, and there was always other sorts of religious art and nick-nacks. It all felt very strange, even though my family and I attended church most every Sunday. It too, felt too religious to me.

One could go into my childhood home and have no idea that we were Christians. There was no Christian art on the walls or coffee tables. You could find a Bible and a Book of Common Prayer if you looked on the bookshelf, but they weren’t on a bedside table. The only clue would have been at the blessing said before dinner. But even that wasn’t too religious. Some would say that we weren’t religious people, even though we attended church. Others would say that we simply had good taste. Of course, those who simply called it “good taste” is who we kept company with.

But is not being too catholic or too evangelical or too high church or too low church the essence of our baptismal identity? Is having good taste, and carefully placing ourselves in the neutral middle what Jesus is calling us to do? What I am getting at is more than just aesthetics. It’s about more than crucifixes, votive candles, contemporary praise music, and “Jesus-we-jus” prayers. 

What I am getting at is this - What might it mean to be unapologetically religious in all that we do, say, and believe? What might it mean to put our Christian identity first and foremost in every aspect of our lives? What might it mean to look at every dollar we spend through the lens of our Baptismal Covenant and Christian identity? What might our calendars look like if they were developed through that same lens? What might our vocations and peer groups look like? What might our investment portfolios look like? What might our pledge cards look like? These things are just as indicative as how religious we are as the decorations in our homes and the type of worship, liturgy, and prayer we are drawn to. These are the things that are a part of our Christian calling to deny ourselves and take up our crosses to follow Jesus. These are the sort of thing that put us on the trajectory of “losing our lives in order to find them.”

Thankfully, we are not in a context where our Christian identity will lead to torture and death like it did to Jesus’ first followers. But that doesn’t mean that leading with your religion this day and age is going to be met with a positive response. In my context growing up in the Episcopal Church, I’d have never described anyone I knew (even the clergy) as being a “devout” Christian. Again, that would have sounded too catholic or evangelical to my circle of family and friends. Many of us proudly identified as devout Seminoles or Gators, and would lead with that in various ways. But very few of us identified as devout Christians. How dressing up with warpaint on our faces and shouting a fight song that ends with the words “Scalp ‘em” was more socially acceptable than talking about our Christian faith to others is beyond me.  

But regardless of our denomination, and regardless of whether we identify as “high church” or “low church,” Jesus calls us all to be devout, passionate, and unapologetic holy followers of him. Such commitment will undoubtedly begin to make us more holy people. Not “holier-than-thou,” but holy. And the more that we continue to lose our lives for Christ’s sake, the more we will continue to find our new lives in Christ. The high church Eastern Orthodox tradition calls this growing in holiness process theosis; the low church Methodist tradition calls it sanctification. Whatever you choose to call it, clearly, it transcends the high church low church distinctions, thanks be to God. In this process of growing more holy, some of us might find ourselves lighting more candles and incense when we pray, and some might find ourselves lifting and waving their hands in the air when we sing. Either way, others will look at us with a suspicious eye because we are suddenly acting “too religious.” Of course, neither of these outward and visible signs are required for a devout and holy life, but more times than not, they flow from it. 

The more important point is, the extraordinary decision to take up our crosses and follow Jesus with devotion and passion will inevitably affect the ordinary decisions we make and the lives that we lead. It will end up causing us to deny much of what we have come to enjoy in our relatively safe, privileged, and “tasteful” lives. And it will cause us to lose the shell that is our old selves – our pre-baptismal, “old-creation selves” and fully embrace our baptismal identity and calling - the new creation that is in Christ Jesus. 

For me, the discovery of Benedictine spirituality was the game-changing moment in my religious journey. It was the Rule of Benedict – and finding a community of fellow Benedictines with whom to sojourn - that gave me the framework for not just being a Christian, but a religious Christian. This transformation has caused me to lose much about my life that I previously cherished and thought was essential. But it has also allowed me to catch glimpses of the life that I am called to take up my cross and find. And the Good News is that the figurative scars that we will receive and bear when we embrace a life that is unapologetically devout, holy, and religious, will pale in comparison to the joy we will feel when we behold the glory of the Son of Man coming into his Kingdom.

12 Pentecost, Proper 16 – August 23, 2020

Sermon by Emily Rose Proctor

Christ the King Episcopal Church

Santa Rosa Beach, FL

But who do YOU say that I am? It is the central question of our faith.  The central question of our lives, those of us who claim to be Christian, who aspire to be followers of Jesus.

It was the question asked of me when I came before my presbytery, the Presbytery of South Alabama, early in the second year of seminary, as they prepared to vote on whether or not I should be approved as a candidate for ministry.

Two other classmates from Columbia Seminary were also there being examined, and they had to answer first.  I listened to them give the standard orthodox answers, the ones we had heard all our lives, growing up in the church, the ones we knew to be the right answers from our time in seminary.  Jesus is our Lord and Savior, fully human and fully divine, the son of God.  Everyone nodded in agreement.  

Then it was my turn.  I took a deep breath and tried to tell the truth about who I knew Jesus to be in a way that wouldn’t get me kicked out of the ordination process.  It was not easy.  It has never been easy.  I hesitate to attempt it even now.

Because the best way I know how to answer that question is to tell you the story of how I came to believe that Jesus really was the Son of the Living God, the Messiah, the one whom I would follow for the rest of my life.  

And the truth is that I met Jesus at a gay protest.  Now some people may have a hard time hanging in there with me, I understand that, but rest assured that this story and this sermon is first and foremost about Jesus.   

The story of my conversion is too long to retell in great detail here, but the abridged version is that at a time when I was comfortably agnostic, I had a mystical encounter with the living Christ at the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church.  

I had been selected to serve as the youth advisory delegate for the Presbytery of South Alabama, the summer after my freshman year in college.  

Little prepared me for what happened one evening as I passed by a group peacefully protesting my Presbyterian denomination’s exclusion of LGBT people on my way into worship.  As I shook one man’s hand, intending to say that I appreciated the peaceful way he was going about his protest, I felt what seemed like centuries of pain and anguish caused by the Church, my Church, wash over me and I heard someone’s voice in my head saying, “Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto me.” 

And without a doubt, I knew that voice to be the voice of Jesus, the Jesus whom just seconds before I hadn’t believed was anything more than an interesting character in an ancient storybook.  I still get chills every time I think about it or tell it.

That strange experience was just the beginning of a process by which I came to firmly believe that Jesus was exactly who my church had always said he was: my Lord and Savior, fully human and fully divine, the son of the Living God.  That process involved the deep study of the Bible and the study of my own Reformed faith tradition.  It involved recognizing the power and presence of the Holy Spirit in lives, relationships, and vocations of those the Church has not always welcomed. It involved rediscovering the radical and compelling person of Jesus.  

By the end of my sophomore year, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life helping others discover the life-changing Good News of God’s love for us in Jesus Christ—a love more powerful than sin, more powerful even than death. A love that would take on human flesh—poor flesh, oppressed flesh, brutalized flesh—to be with us and to reveal to us the true nature of God’s power and God’s love.

It was a strange way to come to believe in Jesus—too dramatic and evangelical and, well, Jesus-centered, for my secular liberal friends to be fully comfortable with… and too accepting of gay people for most of those who were unapologetically Christian to stomach. But for me, that was part of how I knew it really was of God.  It didn’t fit neatly into any of my existing lenses on the world. It surprised me, it changed me, it came with a cost.

Indeed the more I learned about the Living God, and the Living God made flesh in Jesus, the more in keeping with that God’s character and history this odd revelation of mine seemed.  When I read the story of Peter’s conversion to the idea of Gentile inclusion in Acts 10, it felt like reading the template for my own conversion story.

Now Christians today are in a much different position than Peter and his fellow disciples were that day in Cesarea Philippi.  Most Christians today can easily rattle off who it is that others say that Jesus is.  We say it every Sunday in the Nicene Creed…or the Apostle’s Creed, if you’re Presbyterian.  One Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God…crucified, dead, and buried…on the third day he rose again…

For most of us, the process of confirmation…even ordination…is a test of our ability to regurgitate what it is that others say about who Jesus is… but this passage looks us dead in the eye and asks each one of us, “but who do YOU say that I am.”

How we answer that question matters.  It mattered then and it matters today.  

Is Jesus the one who locks the gate or who stands outside it with those who have been excluded?   

Is Jesus the one who blesses us with health, wealth and security or who asks us to take up our cross and follow?

Is Jesus the one who will crush our enemies or offer them the broken bread of his body?

In the gospel reading for today, we heard Peter give the “right” answer and be praised for it, but just two verses later, he takes Jesus aside and rebukes him for claiming that the Messiah would undergo suffering and death.  The idea is so foreign to his and our concept of power and victory, that he can’t even hear the part about resurrection.  

I think perhaps one of the biggest temptations that Christians faith is to claim Jesus as a savior whose sole purpose is to prevent us from suffering or to relieve us from it. Of course we want a savior like this, who wouldn’t?  

This is the kind of savior we are looking for when we turn to painkillers or alcohol for relief or invest all our time and energy in our own well-being, self-improvement or pleasure.  This is the kind of savior we are looking for when our whole focus spiritually is on getting to heaven or having our specific prayer requests answered.  

But this kind of savior tends to lead us away from the suffering of others, rather than towards it. I don't think I could do my job at Caring and Sharing if this is who I believed that Jesus was.  If I believed that suffering and death were a sign of God’s disfavor or absence or of a person’s lack of faith, I could be a chaplain to no one.  

There’s a quote by Paul Claudel that I keep pinned up in my office: “Jesus did not come to explain away suffering or remove it.  He came to fill it with his presence.” 

That Jesus himself was subject to suffering and death—did not avoid it—did not protect his followers from it—allows God in Christ, and by extension the body of Christ, to be present with suffering in a way that those focused on avoiding suffering and death cannot be.  

In times like these, when so many are suffering and dying…from Covid-19 and other diseases, from violence, from poverty and natural disasters… that the Messiah is also the crucified one seems to me to be really important to know and proclaim.

If we let go of the idea of Jesus as a kind of personal magician doctor, then is perhaps equally as tempting to claim Jesus to be the kind of savior who will enact justice by protecting us from and eventually punishing or destroying our enemies, be they foreign powers, liberals or conservatives, non-Christians or criminals, or that family member who betrayed us.

This is the kind of savior that most of our politicians promise to be because they know how appealing it is to most of us.  But this is the kind of savior who would have destroyed Rome and restored sovereignty to Israel, who would have called down fire on the towns that rejected the disciples, who would have cut down every soldier who came to arrest him that night in Gethsemane.

But the God revealed to us in Jesus Christ chose to die rather than kill, chose to heal rather than wound, chose to forgive rather than punish.  In times such as these when the temptation is so strong to segregate and name call and double down on our political, national, or religious convictions…it matters that Jesus came to us riding on a donkey, not on an imperial war horse.  

It matters that Jesus put one who denied him three times in charge of feeding his sheep.  It matters that Jesus said of the ones who crucified him, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”  

When someone I love or am trying to help, in their frustration or stress turns on me and is ugly and accusatory, it matters who I say that Jesus is.  It is Jesus who inspires me to take a deep breath and remind myself that each person I encounter is a beloved child of God, even if they are lashing out in pain, or doing something I wish they wouldn’t in an attempt to cope or survive.  It is Jesus who reminds me that only those without sin may cast a stone.

Finally, if Jesus is no savior at all but only an interesting character in an ancient storybook, if Jesus is only a good teacher, an ethical person, and not the resurrected Son of the Living God, then everything may well be for naught. Why not live for one’s self only if death is more certain and more powerful than God?  How quickly would fear of death or a numbing sense of meaninglessness take over my life if I believed Jesus’s own story ended with crucifixion.  It is only a living resurrected Christ that has the power to rescue us from a life of fear and futility.  

In a minute or two we will all join together in the Nicene Creed.  We will answer the question of who Jesus is in the words of those gathered in the 4th century at the Council of Nicea.  But what the people we will encounter later today, and tomorrow, and the next day, what they will be more interested in is who do WE say that Jesus is?  And what difference does that make in our lives… and in the lives of our neighbors…and in the world.

Who do I say that Jesus is? The Messiah, the son of the Living God, Love incarnate and a refining fire, healer and truth teller, comforter of the afflicted and afflicter of the comfortable, crucified and resurrected, reconciler-in-chief, the one who defeated death by choosing it over violence, the one who defeated sin by forgiving sinners, the one who takes us into his own body through suffering and death and out the other side into new and eternal life.

If you think about it, every new day, every new encounter, gives us a chance to answer Jesus’ question: But who do YOU say that I am?  

No one can answer that question for us.  And how we answer…with our words, yes, but more importantly with our actions… well, it can change everything…

The Feast of the Transfiguration is unique in that it is the only feast that we celebrate twice in the same year. So, if you were having an odd feeling of déjà vu during the gospel lesson, that makes perfect sense. On February 23 of this year – the Last Sunday after the Epiphany - we had the exact same stories about Moses, Jesus, mountaintops, and dazzling, radiant light.  

The reason we got those readings on the last Sunday after the Epiphany is that Epiphany is the season of light, beginning with the story of the bright North Star guiding the Magi to Bethlehem, and ending with Jesus being transfigured on the mountaintop.  So, from the beginning of January through the end of February, we were served a healthy dose of light.  

Earlier this morning, as part of our celebration of the Feast of the Transfiguration, we celebrated the sacrament of baptism out in the church courtyard. Travis Avery Meyer, Jr. was grafted into Christ’s Body, the Church, which to me is an appropriate way to add to the dazzling, radiant light of Christ in the world.  

That being said, I’m not going to preach about light today. Instead, I want to talk to you about darkness. A while back, I read a book by Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor called Learning to Walk in the Dark. And in it, she had a lot of illuminating things to say about darkness. And not only that, the darkness in the transfiguration readings oftentimes gets overshadowed by the light. But the darkness is there as well…you just have to look for it.

In the book of Exodus, when Moses goes up to Mount Sinai to be in the presence of God and to receive the Law, he must enter into a foreboding cloud. God is in that cloud, but Moses can’t see Him. Just like in the passage before when God told Moses to take cover in the cleft of a rock so that he wouldn’t see the God’s face, but only His back. God’s face is too bright for Moses, or for any of us to see. Oftentimes before we can experience the fullness of God in all of His majesty and mystery, we have to take cover under the cleft of the rock, or enter into the cloud – the darkness so to speak.

When Jesus took James, John, and Peter to the mountaintop, all of the sudden Jesus appeared to be transfigured while having a conversation with Moses and Elijah. After this spectacular display of brightness and light, a cloud overshadowed James, John, and Peter, “and they were terrified.” And out of this hazy, foggy cloud came the voice of God, saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  

Once again, in order to diffuse the brightness of God, cloud cover was needed. We hear in Exodus that the Israelites were terrified of the cloud in which God was present. And we hear it again in the Gospels.  When we hear someone say “the fear of the Lord,” we oftentimes hear it as a warning that we should fear God’s wrath or punishment. But in these two lessons today, the fear of the Lord that His followers experienced was more like their being overwhelmed by the majestic power of God.  They were in God’s presence, they heard God’s voice, and it was such an awesomely mysterious encounter that they could only describe it as being terrifying.  

But in the case with Moses and in the case with James, John, and Peter, these frightening encounters in the cloud with God ultimately allowed God’s light to shine. The Law was revealed; and the Messiah was revealed. But they had to enter the mysterious darkness of the cloud first.  

A couple of years ago, Emily and I were on vacation with my extended family up in Black Mountain, NC. Our family does this most every summer, and we love spending almost all of our time outdoors – hiking, biking, fishing, whitewater rafting, and just enjoying the cool mountain air.  But this particular week, the weather forecast showed rain every single day. So we had a decision to make. Either buy a bunch of puzzles and sign in to Netflix or just keep with our plan for outdoor recreation and see what happens.  

Well, we chose the latter, and on one particular day, Emily and I had planned to hike up to the top of Lookout Mountain in nearby Montreat.  This is a hike we do every year and it is well known for having one the prettiest views of the area once you get to the top.  But anybody in their right mind would have looked at their weather app or simply taken the old school approach and looked outside and said this is not the day to hike up to Lookout. It is dark and dreary with a thunderstorm on the horizon. Even if we made it to the top, there’d be nothing to see but clouds and rain, and maybe some foreboding lightening.  

But time wasn’t on our side. We were only there a week, and there wasn’t a pretty day to wait for, so we grabbed our raincoats and headed up Lookout Mountain. Of all the times I’ve hiked up this mountain through the years, I’ve never seen it look this way before. As we ascended the trail, it was as if we were entering into a dreary, dark cloud, hoping to emerge on the other side. But it actually never rained, and we just kept ascending the foggy, cloudy mountain. It was eerie because on a pretty day, the trail is full of hikers going up and coming down, as it is the most popular hike in the area. But on this day, we were the only two who dared to hike on such a nasty day.

When we finally made it to the top, the view was like none we had ever seen there before. Usually you can see for miles all around the Blue Ridge Mountains. But today, our visibility was limited, but the view was nothing less than spectacular. Just as beautiful as on a clear day, but differently beautiful. And because we couldn’t see everything so clearly, and because of the eerie silence that engulfed us at the top of the mountain, it actually felt more majestic and awe-inspiring than it ever had before. As we sat on the peak in the midst of the clouds, I wondered aloud if this was what it was like when Moses went up into the cloud.  Mysterious, foreboding, and absolutely amazing.  

Looking back, I wouldn’t have traded our experience in the darkness of the clouds on top of Lookout Mountain for anything. Emily and I saw what had been very familiar and comforting to us from an entirely new perspective. And by entering into the darkness of the bad weather, we experienced God in a new way. As Barbara Brown Taylor mentions in Learning To Walk in the Dark, we don’t have to choose between light and darkness when we are talking about God. God is God of the light, and God is God of the dark.

Earlier this morning, Avery Meyer received the sacrament of holy baptism. The sacrament of baptism is one in which we, as fellow members of the Body of Christ, all participate. As he was born again through the waters of baptism, Avery will be forever grafted into Christ’s body, of which we are all living members. He will no longer only be proudly claimed by the Meyers and the rest of his biological family; he will be claimed by Jesus Christ and every one of us who are members of Christ’s body. While he will always undoubtedly be a Meyer, he is joining another, much larger family, and we are called to participate not only in the baptismal service itself, but in the raising and nurturing of Avery here at Christ the King.  

And as we all know, as Avery grows older, there will be times when the forecast won’t be what he hoped or planned for, and he’ll have to put on his raincoat and hike into the foreboding wilderness. In baptism we are not promising to his parents, his Godparents, and to him that his life will only consist of bright, sunshiny days. What we are promising him is that when he enters into the clouds, God will be waiting for him. God doesn’t only shine like a bright light; He is in the darkness as well. And if we are willing to meet God in the darkness, we just might gain a new perspective, a new outlook, and a new sense of who God is and where we can encounter Him.

Out of the darkness of the cloud came the Law for the Israelites. Out of the darkness of the cloud came the transfigured Messiah. Our prayer is that Avery will know that wherever he goes, and whatever he experiences in life, God will be with him every step of the way, and we, his new brothers and sisters, will be with him too.