Deliverance from the Storm(front).

I’m going to start with a little bit of an under-the-stole confession here.  A particular preaching pet-peeve of mine is when the priest gets up every week and talks about whatever movie they saw in the last week and maybe, if you’re really lucky, offers some tepid theological reflection upon it.  

Well, I’m not going to inflict that upon you on a regular basis, I promise.  I don’t go to see movies nearly often enough to do it; and secondarily, this sermon isn’t really going to be about a movie, though I am going to mention one briefly in the first part.  And so here it goes:

I went to go see Dunkirk this week.  It was my birthday and we never really go out to the movies or dinner or anything between Charley and our work, and so Lara and I went out for a very fancy, very posh date wherein we watched Dunkirk and then ate some Nando’s which has been a favourite of mine since they opened one near my seminary. Who says I’m not fancy?

Dunkirk is a remarkable movie, and while I’m terribly wary of “endorsing” things from the pulpit, I’d encourage folks to see it.  It manages to show the arbitrary nature of war, the frequent futility of individual struggle in combat, and the tragedy inherent in conflict while simultaneously recognising that even so, there are times in which such tragedy and violence may be the least evil choice; never a good, but the least bad option. 

That it was such a great victory in defeat may not be chalked up merely to the British fortitude and sense of duty, but perhaps also to prayer.  King George called for a national day of prayer as the decision to evacuate was made, and the weather was miraculous indeed, grounding the Luftwaffe for a day, and then granting calm seas to the flotilla of naval ships and little day-sailers that answered the call or were commandeered to get the men off of the beach.  And with all those who responded to King and Country, to duty and to God, and with the protection of the RAF who, though the soldiers on the beach didn’t always recognise it, fought like hell to keep them safe, hundreds of thousands of men made it back to Britain to fight another day and to liberate Europe from the Satanic force of Nazism and Fascism.  

In the end, Dunkirk is a story of Deliverance.  It’s a theme we know well and it’s one that resonates with us; it’s also one of the principal types of story in the Bible.  In fact, this one should be particularly obvious to us.  A group of people driven back to the sea, chased by an army with their chariots, praying for deliverance from what appeared to be a certain fate, and brought through and across the water to freedom.  If that hasn’t rung any bells yet, I have another very good movie for you to watch: Prince of Egypt. 

Deliverance is not brought to us only by brave sailors and pilots, however.  And in today’s gospel we get another story of deliverance.  Jesus has performed a miracle in that he has just fed the masses with loaves and fish, and Jesus sent the disciples along on their way across the lake, while he stayed to dismiss the crowd.  The disciples must have been a bit sulky at their dismissal because they lake is only about four and a half miles across there, but they still hadn’t made it to the other side by the 3:00-6:00am watch.  I’m not sure how much experience any of you have at sea, but suffice it to say, if the men at Dunkirk were waiting for the apostles to come and get them, they’d probably still be waiting.

And while lollygagging their way across, a fierce storm came up, and the disciples were in a bind and afraid for their lives.  And suddenly Jesus comes walking to them across the tumult, striding across the sea as if it were dry land, and if they were scared before, they’re doubly scared now. 

And what does Jesus say? Be not afraid”
To which I hope the disciples said, even if it’s not recorded “Easy for you to say, you’re walking on the water, we’re all about to drown!”

And then Peter, ever skeptical, asks Jesus to call him out onto the water, and to his credit, he manages a step or two before he starts to sink.  But Jesus grabs him and they get into the boat and the wind stops and they recognise him for who he is, that even the wind and the sea obey.

A story of deliverance, of impending doom averted by God’s action in the world.  A story of divine intervention to save us. 

We are, all of us, caught up in the tumult, and it is by Christ stepping into the dangerously broken world, a world in which our lives and souls are at risk, that we are saved from the danger.  In this reading we see the story writ small with the twelve disciples in the boat; in the whole Gospel we see it writ large as God becomes human in the person of Christ to save us from death and the grave.  

But just as importantly, we see here Jesus not just rescuing the disciples as he RNLI rescues people, plucking them out of danger and fighting back to the safety of land.  No, here we see Jesus calm the wind and flatten the sea.  He doesn’t just move them from danger to safety, he conquers the danger, eliminating the storm entirely and leaving behind a place.  

Today (as it is many days lately, it seems), I see my home country on the front page of the BBC's website, and it is once again for horrifying reasons.  While I wish the biggest news of the day had been Chelsea coughing up three goals and picking up two red cards at home to Burnley as it’s always nice for good news to take the day, instead it’s that the same ideology that drove those men onto the beach at Dunkirk is in the midst of a dramatic resurgence which led to one dead and more injured as white supremacists and neo-nazis rally in the states, a rally which many of my former classmates were present with other clergy, in a peaceful and powerful display of Christian witness in opposition to hate.  While I wish I could say such tumultuous and anti-social behaviour was restricted to a tiny group of bigots just in the United States, it is not.  It’s neither a tiny group of bigots, nor is it restricted to just my country.  In fact, we’ve seen the rise of various hate organisations across the west; I had to sign a document before coming attesting that I was not a member of certain organisations here in the UK deemed to be hate groups, and their growth in places like Greece and France has been well documented. 

I find it too appropriate that one of the principal hate magazines in the United States is called “Stormfront” because storm seems to be an appropriate way to describe these movements: unpredictable, complicated, and chaotic.  But no matter how good we get at describing storms, no matter how well we can predict their path, no matter how well we can prepare for them, we cannot stop them.

But Christ can. 

The true answer to this challenge that faces the west, that of extremist ideology of any colour or religion, is the only one who can calm the storm.  God, in whom there is no partiality, is the only one who can do that.  Jesus, who ate with the Samaritan woman, who did not condemn the adulteress to death, in whom there is no slave or free, neither Jew nor Greek, neither male nor female… God is the one who speaks peace into these situations, and it is by becoming better, more serious followers of Christ, and by praying that others may be converted as well, that we can invite Jesus into this situation. 

And so as we go about our lives (particularly here in this place where mustard gas, one of the most horrifying of our weapons of war from the darkness of the last century, was manufactured) let us pray that we may once again find Christ present in the tempest, taking us by the hand, converting us and those around us, and calming the winds and waves so that we may all come together in that peaceable kingdom that is, in all its beautiful diversity, the body of Christ. 

"How Could They?" Palm Sunday, 2017

As we sit here in the midst of passiontide we cannot help but feel the incredible tensions inherent in this day. Even as the echo of sweet “Hosannas” resound through the church, we can taste the bitter gall of vengeance rising in our throats, our lust for blood and punishment causing our tongues to tax the leashes of our restraint to breaking point as the shouts of “Crucify Him” erupt from within; our impulse to destroy the beautiful overpowering us. 

In this moment, far removed from the event, safe at a distance from the fear and pain and death, we cannot help but be reflective.  “How did we get here?  How did we wind up in this situation?  Who am I that I just called for the death of an innocent man?” 

These are, I think, the right questions to ask, or at least are some of the right questions to ask of ourselves. 

Just now there are about 11 million Syrians who are either Internally Displaced Persons or Refugees (the only distinction between the two being whether they are in UN camps in Syria or whether they made it across the border.

Last year when it was announced by President Obama that the United States would welcome 10,000 Syrian refugees, or 0.0009% of these refugees, 53% of Americans thought we should let in fewer refugees, only 11% thought we should let in more.  

As we awoke on April 4th to videos of injured and sick children gasping for breath, their pupils shrunken to pinpoints and foaming at the mouth, and saw the pictures of the dead, of Abdel Hameed al-Youssef holding his dead 9 month old twins, kids just more than half Charley’s age, and preparing to bury them next to his wife and brothers, we would hear them described as “Children of God” who should “never have to suffer such horror.”

True words, certainly, but words that may ring a bit hollow in light of the fact that both they and those who suffer alongside them were banned from taking refuge in this country, and that most Americans thought that doing so was the right move.

How quickly we turn from hatred and rejection to glorification and adoration.

So let us not wonder how it is that the crowds that greeted Jesus with hymning and palms made the same wild swings in reverse.  If we want to understand how the masses can pivot so quickly we need look no further than the mirror.  If we cannot see the fickle and turbulent nature that dwells in each of us, if we cannot feel the herd mentality and the desire of the hunt that, from time to time, rises in our chest, then we must look more closely.  For just as we are all capable of great wonders, so are we each and every one capable of unfathomable horrors, especially as the aggression of the pack sinks into us its razor sharp talons. 

In these moments it is so tempting to withdraw, to cede our agency to those who are the loudest, the angriest, and the most afraid amongst us; those who mistake force for strength, and violence for victory. It’s tempting to wash our hands of it all and say “See to it yourselves (Matthew 27:24). 

Let us not forget, however, that Pilate is not remembered for his substantial administrative acumen that enabled him to keep his post for more than three times the usual term, but rather is remembered each week by billions who say of Christ that “he suffered under Pontius Pilate.” He is remembered not for his action, but for his abdication of his responsibility to care for one who was innocent before it was too late. 

“On the night before he was betrayed our Lord took bread, and when he had given thanks he brake it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “take, eat, this is my Body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” 

Likewise, after supper, he took the cup; and when he had
given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, "Drink ye all of this;
for this is my Blood of the New Testament, which is shed for
you, and for many, for the remission of sins. Do this, as oft as
ye shall drink it, in remembrance of me.” 

There is, I think, no denying that our society has been gripped by incredible and increasing levels of selfishness over the last 60 to 70 years.  While we have made incredible technological progress, it has arrived concurrently with increasing disregard for those who have less, those who are disadvantaged, and those who will come after us. 

This Randian worship of self is satanic in the truest sense; it pulls us inward into our own desires and away from what Jesus commanded us to do: love God and love our neighbors as ourselves.  It tears apart and destroys the beloved creations of God. 

Whether through causation or correlation, we have seen throughout society in that same time a decreasing reverence for Christ present in the sacrament.  When asked to keep watch with Christ for an hour, too many too often decide that they’d rather sleep and stay in bed, or play a sport, or do the crossword and have a coffee, or engage in any number of things that bring us fleeting pleasures that pale when compared to God’s majesty. 

Whether it is pure coincidence or one caused the other or vice-versa I do not know, but if one cannot adore Christ on the altar, one cannot meet Christ in the street.  And if one cannot see Christ in our brothers and sisters who are tossed about in turbulent seas at the mercy of those who offer them no regard, then how can one adore Christ on the altar. 

As we consider today Christ’s passion, there are many places in which we can enter into this story.  Perhaps we are the Apostles, called to stand with Christ in the hour of need but unwilling to turn away from our own comfort.  Perhaps we are in the crowd, caught up in the moment until we catch the scent of blood, and then vicious as starved rats.  Perhaps we are Pilate, seeing the brokenness and horror, but washing our hands of our own responsibility. 

Today especially, no matter where we see ourselves in the story, no matter where we land in this scene, we stand convicted.

We have all fallen short of the Kingdom of God.  We have all failed to do those things which we ought to have done, and done those things which we ought not to have done.  We have all, through our own sin, grieved and broken the heart of God.  It is as a result of our sin that we find Christ on the cross.  

And so let us do on this commemoration of his Passion what our Lord calls us to do: turn back to God in prayer and contrition. Take an honest inventory of our failings and confess them.  Reject the idolatry that tells us our own desires are of principal importance, and that our comfort and safety is worth any cost. Return to Christ on the altar, renew the reverent wonder that comes unbidden as we see the same body, blood, soul, and divinity that was nailed to the tree as it comes amongst us hidden under the shadows of bread and wine.  Remember, mortals, that you are dust, and to dust shall you return.  Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven has drawn near. 

And rejoice. Rejoice that Christ looked into the depths of our depravity, our inordinate cruelty, our unfeeling carelessness and still loved us enough to offer up himself on the cross for our salvation. 

    

  

We Prayed for the Peace of God. Did We Mean It?

Mercifully hear the supplications of your people, and in our time grant us your peace, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

On the 30th of September in 1938 a man arrived at the now-long-gone Heston Aerodrome in London having travelled from a hostile country and got off of his plane to make a bold declaration.  He had spent the day before hammering out an agreement with Herr Hitler who promised to be a very good boy and to only invade a little bit of Czechoslovakia, if Britain and France would cede those parts of the Czechoslovakian territory in order to avoid war. 

Neville Chamberlin got off the plane and promised “Peace for our Time,” a line present in the public consciousness of the nation because it is part of the prayers of the people in the Book of Common Prayer: “Give peace in our time, O Lord; because there is none other that fighteth for us, but only thou, O God.”

The “peace” that Chamberlain brought back to the United Kingdom wound up contributing to the death of millions.  After nearly a year’s worth of the strengthening of the German war machine, war finally came to Europe.  Less than two years later, bombs were falling on London on a nightly basis. 

Chamberlin’s “peace” turned out to be anything but.

Our collect for the day prays that God will mercifully hear our supplications and grant us God’s peace.  It’s a noble sentiment that seems on the surface unobjectionable, but it raises a thorny, painful, and unavoidable question: Do we, in this country, actually want God’s peace? 

It seems obvious, does it not?  Of course we want God’s peace.  God’s peace sounds wonderful.  It sounds fantastic, glorious, spectacular even.  But what exactly is God’s peace.  Does it jibe with that of which we think when we consider our ideas of peace?  

A fellow graduate of the University of the South in Sewanee, TN, William Alexander Percy, was a brilliant writer and poet; he helped to define southern American literature for more than a generation.  He was friends with Langston Hughes and the writers of the Harlem Renaissance, and a mentor to great southern writers who are perhaps even better known, at least in my parts; writers such as Robert Penn Warren, who wrote All the King’s Men, one of my favorite books.  Percy served in Belgium in the early days of World War I, helping those who were cut off from food supplies by the war until the United States entered, at which point he went on to serve in the Army amidst all the savagery that accompanied that shameful time.  Amongst his works was a poem that has since been set to music and found its way into our hymnal.  If you’d like to read it, it’s hymn 661 in the hymnal, “They Cast Their Nets in Galilee.” 

In it he rather succinctly sums up what the calling of the Christian life is.  Verses two and three: “Contented peaceful fishermen/ before they ever knew/ the peace of God that fill’d their hearts/ brimful, and broke them too.  Young John who trimmed the flapping sail,/ homeless in Patmos died./ Peter who hauled the teeming net,/ head-down was crucified.” 

If we are living our lives the way we are intended, this is where God calls us: from contentment to the cross, from comfort to sacrifice, from safety to risk.  The peace of God not only filled their hearts up to the brim, it broke them.  Those who were nearest to Christ, those who most emulated his life, those who understood best what it meant to be followers of God incarnate did not live lives of comfort.  They were not “hashtag blessed.” They did not ‘put good thoughts out into the universe so that they could be prospered,” their focus was not on “becoming their best self” or getting rich using “positive thinking” or any other popular perversions of the Gospel.  

If you ever look on top of McColl Auditorium you’ll see that there’s a spear and square as a spire.  The wrought iron of the doors in the church have on the handles little spears and squares marked into the metal.  The sconces for the lights outside have little spears and squares across the bottom of them. 

We did not adorn our church with spears and squares because Thomas got rich through his enterprising spear-making business. 

We adorned it with spear and square because for Thomas, following Christ and receiving his blessing meant that he would feel the sting of steel on his flesh as the spear passed through him, martyring him. 

Though it’s tempting to think that the peace of God is going to look like good things happening to us, that it’s going to feel like ease and comfort, the fact is that God’s call is challenging and painful and uncomfortable.  For those of us that live in the United States, particularly in this part of the United States, God’s peace may not be for us any of those things.

So if God’s peace isn’t us in mansions, then what exactly does God’s peace look like? 

Well, the prophet Micah tells us that it is to do justice and love mercy and walk humbly with our God.  Micah tells us nothing about looking after our own safety.  He does not say, protect your own interests first.  He does not say, if there’s any left over after you’ve had all you desire then perhaps you should give a little bit away.  Micah tells us that we must do justice now, love mercy now, and walk humbly now.  This is what the Lord requires. 

We hear from the Blessed Virgin Mary what it looks like: He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.  He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.  He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.  

And we hear from Christ, himself, most clearly in the beatitudes those whom it is that he favored:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. 

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. 

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. 

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. 

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. 

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. 

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you."

Blessed are the poor, the mourners, the meek, those who hunger and thirst, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted.

In other words, blessed are those without power or wealth or prestige.  Reward and blessing and favor are for those who are without: those without help; those without hope; those without home.  

Blessed are the victims of violence. Blessed are those who have lost everything. Blessed are those who flee.  Blessed are those who are given reason to be afraid. 

In spite of our founding fathers’ unequivocal assertions otherwise, we frequently claim to be a Christian nation, and certainly we at the least claim to be a nation that is majority Christian.  We pray for the peace of God.

This asks of us the question: Are we ready for that? 

Are we ready for the peace of God?

Do we mean it when we pray, or are those words just wind across our lips and a manifestation of social obligation? 

The last line of that William Percy hymn is this:

The peace of God, it is no peace, 

but strife closed in the sod; 

yet, brothers, pray, for just one thing 

the marvelous peace of God.


The peace of God is no peace.  The message that Jesus brings is not of gentleness and calm and comfort.  He tells us that we will have a belt fastened about us and that we will be taken where we do not wish to go.  He tells us that the whole order of things will be upended.  He tells us that to follow him is not safety.  He calls us to bear witness to his mercy and love those who have been left behind, pushed to the margins, or suffered violence, with witness with our lives if necessary.  He calls us, like Thomas, like Peter, like Paul, like Andrew, like James, like Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, James, Thaddaeus, and Simon, and countless thousands of others who were martyred and now bear their palms and their incorruptible crowns in heaven to seek and proclaim the truth, come whence it may, cost what it will. 

We will all encounter in our lives many times over situations in which we must choose whether or not to stand with Christ. Situations in which we must ask ourselves if we are going to seek the illusory, deceptive, and superficial comforts and securities of the world, or if we will choose the more difficult, costly, marvelous and lasting peace of God. Will we choose the selfish love of worldly goods and the illusion of safety, or the sacrificial and subversive power that is demonstrated by the love of Christ?

Today in our collect, we prayed that God would in time grant us God’s peace.  The question we must ask of ourselves in this time and this place is this:

Did we mean it?

Did we mean it?