Sit and Eat

Sermon: Not About Playing Nice

 I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, October 24.  It is the last in a series about St. Lydia's relationship to the wider Church.  The text is Ephesians 3:14-21.  Read it here. 

 

 

A few weeks ago, I met up with a pastor for lunch.  This pastor, just like me, is a church planter, and he’s getting ready to start a new church.  So we got together in a cafe and talked about those things that are particular to starting new churches.  The stages of development new churches go through, and the particular stresses and joys of being a leader in a new church start. 

It was really nice to share that kind of connection with someone. 

 

I also had this feeling, though I couldn’t say why, that this pastor was quite a bit more conservative than I am. Neither of us had said anything to tip the other off -- we kind of danced around any issues that would be sensitive -- but I just had this feeling.  

 

We talked about getting together again. 

We talked about praying for one another,

about starting a colleague group for church planters. 

And I really liked those ideas. 

 

When I got home, I went to the website of the denomination of this pastor, and if his theology holds true to that of his denomination (which very well may not be the case -- there’s a diversity of theologies at work among the clergy of any denomination) we were indeed seem on very different ends of the spectrum.  As I read the words on that site, I had this feeling that my heart was tearing, because I could no longer see a way forward.  

 

The website read: 

 

Homosexuality is a condition of disordered sexuality that reflects the brokenness of our sinful world. Persons of same-sex attraction should not be denied community acceptance solely because of their sexual orientation and should be wholeheartedly received by the church and given loving support and encouragement.

 

I read these words in this sanctuary, words that are painful for me to read out loud, and painful for many here, because I want to emphasize that Christian unity is not about playing nice.  Not about making nice.  Not about pretending that there aren’t differences between those who call themselves Christians that have enormous implications for all people all over the world. 

 

Sitting at my computer and reading these words, I asked God to tell me how she was asking me to be in relationship with someone who’s theology takes what I see as holy and sacred: loving, generative relationships between two men or two women, and sees them instead as a “reflection of the brokenness of our sinful world.”

 

What was I supposed to do next?  

How could I pray for this pastor and his church without praying against him? 

How could we continue to develop a relationship, with the gulf that most likely existed between us?

 

 

Paul writes to the community in Ephesus 

of his vision for the Universal Church, 

and uses a word that is loaded with meaning for all of us: family. 

 

I bow my knees before the Father, he writes, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name.

 

Paul’s making a play on words here. 

The word father in greek is pater.

The word family is its feminine: patria.

 

Patria is defined as a nation or tribe, a lineage with the same ancestry. 

And pater?

The literal meaning of pater, which we usually translate as father, is 

nourisher, protector, upholder.  

The one who made us,

keeps us safe,

sustains us.

 

 

Last week Daniel Simons came and preached here as a part of our conversation about St. Lydia’s relationship to the wider Church.  And he asked us to think about a time when we felt like we belonged.  Finding a place to belong is crucial to being part of a spiritual community.  But I think it’s the moments when we suddenly find, with a sense of sharp realization, that we don’t belong at all, that we begin to catch a glimpse of the breadth and depth and wonder of the universal family that we are all a part of. 

 

What do we see when we hang out on the fringes, 

when we spend time in the margins, 

when we feel strangely out of place, 

out of sorts, 

out of our element, 

when we try to stretch across the divide to reach someone 

who may seem impossibly far away? 

 

How do we mange to hold this body together, 

when unity is not about playing nice?

 

How do I sit across the table from a person who believes that my best friend “reflects the brokenness of a sinful world” and think, know, you are part of me. 

 

 

I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, 

Paul writes, 

the breadth and length and height and depth;

that God can accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask 

or imagine. 

 

 

We all share the same ancestry. 

Our family, like any family, has fights and quarrels. 

We wound each other terribly 

because sometimes we can be awfully small. 

But God is awfully big. 

Sometimes, when we try to stretch as big as God, 

our hearts begin to tear. 

And it hurts. 

And we’re not sure that we can go much farther.

But God is bigger.  

broader and longer and higher and deeper. 

And can do more than we can even imagine. 

 

We are a naive people, Christians, 

for we continue to stubbornly pursue 

this gorgeous notion 

that we ourselves have failed to uphold 

again and again throughout history:

that we are all, 

simply by virtue of being human, 

one body. 

And no matter how we might try to distance ourselves from one another, 

we are part of each other. 

 

We continue to believe,

recklessly believe, 

that there is a God out there 

who is big enough to hold us all,

bigger than we can even imagine, 

as Paul says. 

We fight and split and fight again, 

but still hang onto this notion

that there is something that binds us together. 

We cut off relationships and run away and refuse to speak to each other, 

and still long for a place where we might all sit down together and break bread.  

Because we’re part of one another. 

 

Perhaps it is our failure of imagination, 

our tendency to underestimate God’s love 

that has so many of us 

constantly shortchanging our creator: 

 

There is room for everyone at this table. 

But it is our relentless hope that keeps us coming back. 

 

The Church is not a Country Club

 I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, October 10, 2010.  The text is Ephesians 2:11-21.  Read it here. 

 

 

I’ll start out by telling you what the church isn’t. 

The church is not a country club. 

 

A country club is a place where a whole bunch of people get together who have some things in common.  Things like money, and careers, and politics.  Like shared values, and a shared way of life. 

 

Country clubs have memberships.  And the members at a country club are carefully selected.  When you join a country club, the idea is that you’ll act in keeping with the members who are already there.  That you’ll assimilate.  That you’ll integrate.  That you’ll carry forward a certain way of life into the future. 

 

Every so often in New York, I find myself out to dinner with someone who’s used to living a very different kind of life than me.  And suddenly I have that feeling of being totally and completely wrong.  My clothes are wrong and the way I speak is wrong.  I don’t know the differences between the forks and I can’t pronounce the French on the menu.  Something about the whole situation makes me think that somehow...I'm wrong.  

 

The church is not a country club. 

Or at least, it shouldn’t be.  

 

 

St. Lydia’s had our Fall Community Meeting yesterday, and we had a wonderful opportunity to have some conversation about a process that we’re currently at the very beginning of.  We’re discerning together about what it would mean to become linked or affiliated with a denominational body: the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America.  Our relationship with Trinity Lower East Side means that we’re already in relationship with the wider church through this local congregation.  But what would it mean to widen our relationship even further?

 

One of the concerns that I heard as we spoke yesterday was about identity.  If St. Lydia’s is linked to a denomination, does that mean we might loose a sense of our identity?  This is a fear that I understand, and I’ve been working to find language that adequately expresses the type of fruitful relationship I envision for us. 

 

 

So we turn again to Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, a letter that Paul’s writing to an early Christian community about his vision for the universal church.  Paul’s writing to address an issue that has to do with assimilation.  The new churches in many of the cities where churches have sprung up are all facing a problem.  There are non-Jews who are converting to Christianity.  And the Jews who follow Jesus want to say, Wait!  You have to assimilate!  You need to follow the Jewish law like we do, and get circumcised like we did!  You have to fit in with us, follow our ways!

 

Paul writes back and says No, that’s not what we’re doing at all.  What we’re doing is entirely new.  

 

The Church is not a country club.  

It’s not about assimilating.  

 

 

The church, he tells us, is a household.  

A household built on the foundation of all those followers of Christ who have gone before.  

And the cornerstone of that household is Christ.  

 

Think for a moment of your household, whether its the one you live in now, or the one you grew up in.  

And think of the relationships at work in that household.  

Think of the ways the people in that household impacted one another, changed one another.  

Think of the diversity in that household. 

How different its members are from one another. 

How distinct their personalities are, 

and the different roles they play.  

 

In my house growing up, my mother kept things homey and running smoothly, I kept things silly and joyful, and my Dad, who’s a bit of a mischief maker, kept things just a little off balance.  We all impacted one another, but I knew growing up that my family wanted me to be who I was, not they imagined I might be, or who they wished they had been.  

 

 

When they’re functioning at their best, 

households are places with roofs to keep out the rain, 

with warm food and good conversation. 

They offer support and encouragement to each member, 

so that that person might grow into the fullest version of his or her self. 

Not who someone else wants you to be, 

but who you truly are. 

 

They offer distance to retreat 

room to be different from everyone else,

and room to grow away 

and maybe come back. 

 

Finally, everyone in the household has a role to play that suits his or her particular gifts. 

No one’s being assimilated.

but everyone is a member,

joined together under one structure. 

Everyone in the household has a particular role, 

Some are the guardians of the history, of the memories. 

Some keep their eyes on the future. 

Some offer experience, 

Others offer vision. 

Some are listeners. 

Some are always pushing. 

Some always remember the forgotten,

Some seek the middle ground. 

 

Everyone has a role. 

 

 

St. Lydia’s is in the middle of a conversation about how to be a member of a household that is much bigger than ourselves.  A household that’s built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ as its cornerstone. 

 

When that household of the wider church is functioning at its best, 

we’ll have a place that keeps the rain off our heads and offers warm food and good conversation.  

A place that gives us support and encouragement, 

but also distance and room to figure out who it is that we are.  

A place where we we have something to offer to the household as a whole, 

a role to play. 

 

In any household there is dissent, conflict, illness.

There is a pull away from diversity and toward conformity. 

There are voices that speak more loudly than others,

and structures that oppress or silence dissent. 

Our local and global churches are no different. 

It’s not a vision and it’s not a dream. 

But, thank God, it’s not a country club. 

 

What the church is:

as Paul says, a dwelling place for God.

A nest made with human hands 

where the holy might find a place to rest. 

A place that offers peace to those who were near, and those who were far away. 

A place where we might be one instead of two, members of God’s household.

 

 

 

We share the sermon at St. Lydia’s, and so I invite you to share a story from your experience that was brought up by the text or my words.

 

Everybody Worships Something

Rachel's been reading David Foster Wallace.  Last week we sat in the office at Trinity and she told me I needed to hear something.  She hit play on her laptop and we listened together in silence.  

If someone asked me to define beauty, I would say that it's that moment of pause when something in you breaks just a little bit and you remember what it actually is to be human. 

Here's the excerpt of his speech we listened to, delivered at Kenyon's commencement in 2005.  And if you like, the full transcript. 

...Here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it JC or Allah, bet it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and [unintelligible -- sounds like "displayal"]. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech is supposed to sound. What it is, as far as I can see, is the capital-T Truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical niceties stripped away. You are, of course, free to think of it whatever you wish. But please don't just dismiss it as just some finger-wagging Dr. Laura sermon. None of this stuff is really about morality or religion or dogma or big fancy questions of life after death.

The capital-T Truth is about life BEFORE death.

-David Foster Wallace