Believing After Boston

Thursday in the Third Week of Easter

March 18, 2013

Church Divinity School of the Pacific

Berkeley, CA

 

1 Samuel 15:16-23

Ps 65:1-5

Acts 8:9-25

John 6:44-51

 

I had a different sermon planned for tonight.

One about community and living in relationship.

I had meant to focus on the failed leadership of Saul, the corrupt spiritual ways of Simon Magus, and the dependence on Jesus as the bread of life.

But I scrapped that sermon after Monday afternoon.

 

Maybe it is because I still think of Boston as my home.

Maybe it is because I have been to many Boston Marathons.

Maybe it is because my wife Jennifer lived and worked on those blocks.

Maybe it is because we were married in a church a block away.

Maybe it is because I have stood exactly where those bombs went off.

 

What I know is that I am worn down.

Some of you know these places and can identify with my experiences.

Many of you can’t but perhaps have other places that loom large for you, places that you would never want desecrated by violence and bloodshed.

Or you yourself have stood at similar places.

But I think we can all agree that we are weary.

We are tired.

We are worn down by the constant drumbeat of violence in our culture.

 

I suspect we have all found our breaking point.

For some it was Newtown.

Or 9/11.

Or the London Tube.

Or Norway.

Or shootings on our streets in Chicago or LA or Philadelphia or Oakland.

Or it was JFK.

Or MLK.

 

I find myself grappling with the fact that for my generation, terrorism and violence has been a constant drumbeat.

I was born in 1973.

The decade began with the hostages at the Munich Olympics.

It ended with the assassination of Anwar Sadat after he signed a peace accord between Egypt and Israel.

The 1980s included the assassination of Oscar Romero, the Hezbollah bombings of Marine barracks in Lebanon, the Achilles Lauro hostages, Lockerbie.

That decade brought in the crack wars that devastated the city of Hartford where I grew up and many other cities and towns across this country.

The 1990s was Oklahoma City and the first World Trade Center bombing and attacks on abortion clinics.

And then 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, IEDs.

My best friend was a Marine who was killed in Iraq.

His name was Greg.

Among all these acts of violence we also remember the mass shootings in Stockton, Columbine, Aurora, and Newtown and hundreds of other events.

I can measure the progress of my life according to the violence around me.

I speak only for my context but I think there is something that resonates in my litany with many of you.

America has been afflicted with the sickness and sin of violence.

 

At the same time, there is something deeply Christian about American culture.

This is the country that John Winthrop declared to be a city on the hill and a light to the nations.

This is the country that appealed to Scripture to end slavery.

This is the country that claimed the deepest truths of Christ to end racial oppression and segregation.

And it is the country that believes in the myth of redemptive violence.

Americans throughout history have believed that violence when justly applied reflects God’s will for America as a divinely elect nation.

We even envision the violent suffering of American heroes as a sign of their righteousness.

As a people, Americans have the tendency to believe that violence redeems whatever cause we hold dear whether as victims or aggressors.

America was formed as a Christian nation and our belief in redemptive violence comes from a particular way of reading the Christian Scriptures.

 

This belief goes deep into the Scriptures.

We see it in the command of God to the Hebrews to practice a war of annihilation in the land of Canaan.

This is why God is angry with Saul at Gilgal in the reading we heard tonight.

God had commanded conquering Israelites to completely destroy all the spoils of war on the battlefield.

Saul instead chose to keep some of the spoil to sacrifice to God at Gilgal.

The message of this passage seems to be that God prefers the complete obedience of total annihilation over the offering of sacrifices, sacrifices that might convey Saul’s might as a leader as much as God’s glory.

The psalms speak of God and his anointed kings as victorious warriors and proclaims that the enemies of Israel deserve defeat.

The Book of Revelation envisions Christ as a triumphant king sent to overthrow the rulers of the world.

The message seems to be that violence when wielded by God and his agents redeems the people of God.

 

What do we do with this after Boston?

After Newtown?

After Oklahoma City?

After Memphis?

After Dallas?

The truth is, there can be a hollow feeling of powerlessness.

 

Yet, we are Christians.

If that name for us means anything, it means fundamentally that we turn to Christ to make sense of this world.

And yet, what Christ do we turn to?

After Boston and after Newtown, and I speak for myself, I shrink away from turning to the crucified Christ.

I shrink away because I refuse to see the violence inflicted on him as redemptive.

Tonight I am with the fearful disciples on Good Friday who thought that there was no meaning to be made of being tortured to death.

The violence inflicted on Jesus was not redemptive.

 

Yet, I turn to Christ.

I turn to the resurrected Christ.

His suffering death alone was not redemptive.

But his resurrection was.

His death was only meaningful in light of his resurrection.

 

The author of John makes meaning of Christ’s death in these words of Jesus we heard read:

“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live for ever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” (John 6:51)

But doesn’t this seem like too easy of an answer?

Is the promise of Jesus as the bread of life enough to bind up our wounds?

How can turning to Christ as the bread of life end the culture of violence that Americans seem completely sealed in?

I admit I do not know.

I am lost.

 

And yet I trust that if I eat the bread of Jesus Christ I will live forever.

I eat the bread of Christ as the Israelites ate the manna in the desert — completely vulnerable.

I have nothing that can stop the violence that can befall me at any time.

There is nothing that I can do that will protect my family; that can protect my children.

We are all completely vulnerable to the violence in our land.

My only hope is to completely rely on God for my sustenance.

Weapons will not save me.

Violence will not protect me.

There is no meaning in the loss of life.

But as a believer in the Creator God, the one who raised Jesus Christ from the dead, I must believe in the inexorable power of life.

Life, health, thriving, community — these things are grounded in God alone.

 

The world and its wisdom is outside.

Violence and terror are its ways.

It will never save you.

Relying on God who is Life will.

We gain life by eating — eating the wheat, the rice, the fruit that God has placed here for the life of the world.

In the midst of death, come and take hold of life.

Come and eat this bread — take it, eat it, rely on it.

This bread is the power of Jesus Christ’s resurrection.

It is the power of the resurrection, rejecting all that destroys life.

Take this holy food and discover that death has been swallowed up by life.

In the midst of violence, in the midst of striving for power, in the midst of our confusion, God exists as the Life-giver.

Take the true bread that has come down from heaven.

It is the promise of life.

 

Barren Branches and Flowering Branches

Thursday in Second Week of Lent
February 28, 2013
Church Divinity School of the Pacific
Berkeley, CA

Jeremiah 17:5-10
Psalm 1
Luke 16:19-31

“They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream.” (Jer. 17:8a)

If we imagine Lent as a journey through the wilderness, by now we have taken a bend in the road.

We can’t turn around and see Ash Wednesday behind us.

The memory of ash on our foreheads is not as strong.

But perhaps the words of the Ash Wednesday liturgy still echo in your ears: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Those words call us to penance, rightly and surely.

But, remember also the ultimate referent of those words is God, the creator and source of all life.

God created all that is, setting forth and ordering all of the tremendous beauty, diversity and mystery of creation.

Remember you are made from the dust of the earth.

Remember you are made from dust that came from the stars shining above.

Remember you are dust from which plants spring forth.

Remember that when you die you will return back to the elemental realities God formed.

Remember God the Creator.

Forgetting God the Creator, the source of all being, is the essence of idolatry.

To forget God as the source of all is to break the First Commandment – “I am the Lord your God.”

When we forget this, then we forget the Second Commandment, “You shall not make for yourself any idol.”

Jeremiah addresses this forgetfulness when he speaks to the people of Israel: “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord.” (Jer 17:5)

Immediately before in this chapter, Jeremiah has condemned the people for turning away from Torah to idols.

That turning away includes looking to foreign powers instead of God.

Israel was threatened from all sides by foreign powers – Egypt, Assyria, Babylon.

Rather than trust in God, Israel sought political solutions by turning to their own strength and by seeking alliances with other powers.

In the course of these pursuits, Israel also turned to idolatry, forgetting God’s covenant with Israel made at Sinai.

For Jeremiah, idolatry happens when the people of God move from relying on God the Creator and instead turn to their own strength.

This indeed is the origin of sin – turning away from God.

The problem is not simply in turning away from God.

Sin involves losing sight of God as the source of all creation.

Sin disfigures God’s plan for creation – that all should live in harmony and unity with God, with each other, and with all that God has created.

Jeremiah uses a striking image for this idolatry – sin is like a drought.

He declares that those who put their own agenda before God’s desire for creation will be:

“like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see when relief comes. They shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land.” (Jer. 17:6)

By putting other things in the place of God, sin dries up and shrivels the vibrancy of life.

Sin causes the leaves and buds and flowers and fruits to fall off the branches of our life until we are left with a broken stick.

We find a similar image of sin in Jesus’ parable of the rich man and Lazarus in the Gospel of Luke.

In this parable, the rich man dines sumptuously his whole life; he is blessed with many fine things.

Even his burial shows that he had the means to ensure not only a comfortable life but a seemly transition to the world to come.

His wealth would have been interpreted by Luke’s audience to mean that God had favored him.

And then comes the great reversal that is the core of Luke’s gospel.

The poor man, Lazarus, is exalted to the bosom of Abraham and the rich man is cast down to Hades.

The rich man went down to Hades not because he was rich but because he did not heed the word of God regarding his wealth.

The Scriptures of Israel that Jesus taught from held that the people of God must care for the poor in their midst.

Moses clearly taught this when in the Torah provisions are made for the poor and aliens in the midst of Israel.

Jeremiah taught this when he wrote: “For if you truly amend your ways and your doings, if you truly act justly one with another, if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow . . . and if you do not go after other gods to your own hurt, then I will dwell with you in this place.” (Jer 7:5-7)

For Jeremiah, not caring for the poor in your midst is linked to idolatry.

They are linked because both show a disregard for God’s plan that all be in relation with God and with each other.

And when the rich man begs Abraham to send Lazarus to cool his thirst, Abraham tells him it is too late – his way of life has sealed his fate.

And neither does Abraham allow Lazarus to go back to the rich man’s brothers to warn them of their fate – the words of Moses and the prophets are sufficient.

Indeed, even if someone comes back from the dead, they will not believe.

In this world, the rich man never saw Lazarus.

He neglected Torah by neglecting Lazarus.

And that neglect shows that he placed himself before others.

That attitude of superiority in itself was an act of idolatry because it signaled that God was not at the center of life for the rich man.

And so he did not respond to God’s desire for communion among all created things.

And for that, he thirsted.

Sin had rendered him dry and without the vibrancy of life.

There was no water for him.

Sin had ruined all the comforts he had carefully laid up.

Scripture is clear.

There are two ways – a way that leads to flourishing and life and a way that leads to dryness and lifelessness.

Both Jeremiah and the psalm imagine one who follows the wisdom of God as being like a flourishing tree that has set down roots by running waters.

In contrast, to not heed God is to be like a withered shrub or chaff that the wind blows away.

I imagine these two ways as the way of the barren branch and the flowering branch.

[Pull out budding branch]

We can imagine ourselves, our society, and our planet as a budding branch.

And it can become a flowering branch or a barren branch based on our actions.

We become the barren branch when we do not obey God’s desire for us, for humanity, and for creeation even when we know words of God spoken by Moses, the prophets, Jesus. [pluck buds]
Our society becomes a barren branch when we neglect the poor right under our feet. [pluck buds]

When we are willing to be complicit in injustice. [pluck buds]

When the diminishment of others is not our concern. [pluck buds]
Our world becomes this barren branch when we consume and don’t care. [pluck buds]

When we desire products that rely on rare metals whose mining means poisoned waters for indigenous people and civil wars in corners of the world remote to us.  [pluck buds]

This has been the driest winter in the Bay Area on record.

The sunshine you enjoyed today was not good news.

It was as bad news as Hurricane Sandy was. [pluck last buds]

Like this barren branch, it is a sign of the destruction that human sin causes among God’s creation.

We have created barren branches in ourselves, in society, and upon our earth.

[Put down barren branch.]

And there is the way of the flowering branch.

Psalm 1 and Jeremiah teaches that the wise and blessed are those who trust in the Lord and delight in God’s Law.

They are like trees by streams of water, bursting with green leaves, flowers and fruit.

This is the way of flourishing: choosing the way of wisdom that places God at the center and as the source of creation.

Discerning God as source and center allows us to see the goodness and communion God desires for all of creation.
To return to this sense of God’s desire for us requires repentance.

It requires seeing the world and our lives and our society not as we want it but as God does.

[Hold up flowering branch]
Repentance brings forth the buds of the branch and causes flowers to bloom.

When we turn to God and in prayer discern God’s will for us, flowers bloom.

When we heed God’s call to care for the poor and hungry, flowers bloom.

When people make a stand for a society that is just, honest, and fair, flowers bloom.

When greed gives way to generosity, flowers bloom.

When we stop consuming and start sharing, flowers bloom.

And is it possible?

Can we imagine a way past the destruction of creation that looms on the horizon, that is indeed upon us?

Might the barren branch become the flowering branch in the desolate places we have made?

Amid the melting ice, warming oceans, and parched land?

Might the flowers on the branch bloom?

There is one who has come back from the dead to warn us.

And not just to warn us, but to give us abundant life.

[Put both branches together]

He is the branch that has sent forth new shoots from the root of Jesse.

He is the one who says, “Behold, I make all things new” (Rev. 2:15).

Blessed are those who walk in the way of the Lord for they shall bring forth fruit in due season with leaves that do not wither.

Sermon on Ash Wednesday

I know this is a bit late, but here is the sermon I preached this Ash Wednesday at All Souls Episcopal Parish in Berkeley, CA.

—————-

Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b–6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Why are we here?
That answer seems simple enough: We are here to begin the season of Lent.
We are gathered to prepare ourselves for the remembrance of Christ’s death and his glorious resurrection.
We are here to prepare as the holy people of God have always prepared when approaching the mysteries of God’s grace.

Scripture testifies that drawing near to God includes purification by fasting and repentance.

But Scripture also warns that we need to have a right understanding of this process.

We live in an age in which our focus is so highly individualized.

So when we hear the word repentance, our minds first go to personal sins.

It is appropriate to deal with these but Scripture teaches that our concern ought not to be just with how our sins touch us but even more so how they effect others.

The purpose of fasting and repentance of sins is not to make ourselves feel closer to God.

God desires our fasting and repentance to be a way to reset the entire social order

The message of Scripture, over and over, is that sin matters because it distorts our relationship with God, with one another, and with all that God has created.

God’s desire for the people of God to reset their social order is found in our reading from Isaiah.

These words are addressed to the exiles from Babylon.
They are seeking to re-establish their relationship with God as they restore their worship of God at the Temple in Jerusalem.
A fast, they believe, will draw them closer to God.
But the prophet tells them a fast alone won’t suffice.
Attending to their personal sphere alone won’t do it.
And they know it.

They ask: “Why do we fast, but you do not see? Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?’ (Is 58:3a)

The prophet responds:

“Look, you serve your own interest on your fast-day,
and oppress all your workers.
Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight
and to strike with a wicked fist.
Such fasting as you do today
will not make your voice heard on high.” (Is 53:3b-4)
God will not hear the people’s cry until they repair their relationships with one another.Isaiah reminds us that God the Creator desires all creation to be in right relationship.

But the returning exiles are not in right relationship with their neighbors, and thus not with God either.
Their fast is not pleasing to God until it is accompanied by justice and peace.
Their fast is not pleasing to God until their workers are paid fairly.
Their fast is not pleasing to God until they cease fighting with one another.
This is the fast God desires from the people of God.

Scripture says it plainly:
“Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin? [Is 58:6-7]

The fast that pleases God is a just fast.
It is a fast that involves sharing what you don’t eat with the hungry.
It is a fast that houses the homeless.
It is a fast that clothes the needy.
It is a fast that purifies not only your soul but also heals society.

And the prophet is clear: if you do not counteract injustice you are complicit with it.

Will your fast be a just fast?
It is this question that drives Jesus’ words on fasting that we have heard.
Jesus does not disapprove of fasting.
We know this because he himself fasted for forty days in the wilderness.
What he opposes is the fast that is not just.
He opposes the fast that makes us feel we are holy and special while we ignore our responsibility as people of God to do justice and to make peace.
If we are satisfied with the simple act of fasting and penitence today and this Lent, Jesus tells us we have lost our way.
In the Gospels, over and over again, Jesus calls his disciples into relationship with the God of Israel and with one another.
Jesus, like Isaiah, teaches that all we have is from God the Creator.

We are made from dust, to dust we will return, all we possess comes from God.

Being from dust, depending on God for our being, we are set free to be in loving relationship with all, including those we have oppressed, whether personally or complicity.

This is a key element of what the Kingdom of God means to Jesus.
This vision of the Kingdom of God encompasses a life in which all of God’s people are in a relationship and in which no one is diminished.
All are to be loved as God loves, both your neighbor and your enemy, both those you aid and those you oppress.
The point of repentance is to not only focus on what inhibits our relationship with God, but to repent of that which harms and diminishes others.

And when Jesus speaks of the rewards of heaven, I think he has in mind rewards that bring us closer to God and to the ideal way in which we are called to live.
We are called to feed hungry and care for the needy.
When this happens, what was missing and broken in our common lives is repaired.
We are called to a fast in which we move beyond ourselves and our personal concerns to a wider circle of concern for others.
We are called to a just fast.
Our reward for taking on a just fast is that in those small mundane tasks of justice the patterns of the kingdom of God slowly become visible among us.
We will come up soon and receive ashes on our head and be told that we are from dust and will return to dust.
We are born with nothing and we will leave with nothing.
We depend on God alone for our life.
And so if we depend on God alone, what is there to lose in taking on this just fast, this fast in which we expand the circle beyond ourselves?

We are dust.
All we have depends on God.

So, feed the hungry.
Clothe the naked.
Care for the needy.
Stop your quarrels.
Make peace.

This is the fast God desires.

This is the fast that leads to the cross and to the empty tomb and to the risen Christ.
The ash on your head will mark another step on the path of living out God’s justice.

There is nothing to lose and the treasures of heaven to gain.

A Four-Legged Stool? Blogging Richard Hooker on Ecclesiastical Polity

In his disputation with Puritans, Richard Hooker assumes that people on both sides of the argument agree on basic theological matters and participate in a broadly reformed consensus shared with Protestant counterparts in continental Europe. So Hooker’s argument with Puritans rests in matters of practice, or what he describes in the title of Book V, chapter 6 as “the outward publique ordering of Church affaires.”

Hooker sets out four propositions for evaluating arguments over the ordering of the Church. As mentioned in a prior post, he draws these arguments from the Preface and the statement “Of Ceremonies” in the 1552 Book of Common Prayer.  These principles are that of reason, ancient practices of the Church, ecclesiastical authority, and equity. It is a commonplace to argue that Hooker introduces a three-fold hermeneutic of Scripture, tradition, and reason into Anglicanism, commonly referred to as a three-legged stool. Yet nowhere does Hooker explicitly lay out this hermeneutic. In light of his proposals here, one could just as easily refer to a four-legged stool for evaluating Anglican ecclesiology and practices. A quick look at these four propositions is fruitful.

Regarding reason, it is important to keep in mind that Hooker does not understand reason in our contemporary sense of something like common sense or rational deliberation or personal insight. Rather, reason for Hooker is aligned with the concept of natural law, that there are universal principles of the universe ordained by God. Humans, made in the image of God, operate according to natural law. Reason is one of the clearest ways that humans operate according to natural law. In this sense, Hooker can speak of reason this way: “In the powers and faculties of our soules God requireth the uttermost which our unfained affection towards him is able to yeeld” (V.6.1). Reason is one way in which humans know how to and are capable of conforming themselves to God. Crucially, religion, especially the act of worship, as expressed in the life of the Christian Church is the vehicle for this conformity. Furthermore, because there is one God and one natural law, so also there ought to be only one form of religion for any given commonwealth so that all can alike perform worship of the one God. This first proposition is designed to militate against the Puritan view that multiple approaches to the worship of God might be possible in any given commonwealth.

Hooker’s second proposition concerns ancient practices of the church. He argues that any practices in the life of the Church must be taken seriously if they have been “allowed as fitt in the judgment of antiquitie and by the longe continewed practise of the whole Church” (V.7.1). Here Hooker resists the Puritan charge that existing practices in the Church of England should be eliminated because they are not found within the New Testament. Affirming the importance of the traditions of the Church, Hooker counters with a general rule of thumb for evaluating practices. “Whereby wee are taught both the cause wherefore wise mens judgments should be credited, and the meane how to use theire judgments to the increase of our own wisdom. That which showeth them to be wise is the gatheringe of principles out of theire owne particular experimentes. And the framinge of our particular experimentes according to the rule of their principles shall make us such as they are” (V.7.2). In other words, wisdom is a collective process. Long standing practices are sustained by a collective discernment of the wisdom of past practices preserved in the contemporary life of the Church. Change in practices then should be undertaken judiciously. “In which consideration there is cause why we should be slow and unwillinge to chaunge without verie urgent necessitie the ancient ordinances rites and long approved customes of our venerable predecessors” (V.7.3).

The third proposition of Hooker’s concerns ecclesiastical authority to make decisions about practice. As he notes, “All thinge cannot be of ancient continewance whoch are expedient and needfull for the orederinge of spirituall affares: but the Church beinge a bodie which dyesth not hath alwaies powers, as occasion requireth, no less to ordeine that which never was, then to ratifie what hath bene before” (V.8.1). In other words, the Church itself can ordain new practices or laws; it can also abolish pre-existing ones. In both cases, Hooker says, the Church “doe well” (V.8.2). But this authority to alter practice does not extend to doctrine. “But that which in doctrine the Church doth now deliver rightlie as a truth, no man will saie that it may hereafter recall and as rightlie avoutch the contrarie. Lawes touching matter of order are changeable, by the power of the Church; articles concerning doctrine not so” (V.8.2.). In other words, Hooker argues that the Church of England properly embraces the universal faith of the Church as represented especially in the core doctrines of the Incarnation and the Trinity (more on the Incarnation later in Book V). But Hooker, arguing against the Roman Catholic and Puritan perspective of that period, also holds that each local Church (here England) can adapt its order and practices as befitting it. In other words, neither the polity of Rome or that of Geneva is fitting for England but that represented in the current structure of the Church of England at his time are most fitting.

The three-legged stool is a popular distillation of Richard Hooker’s theological method. While he himself never uses that concept, I believe a toehold for it as popularized by later writers is embedded in this chapter. As he tries to explain how a Church can appropriately decide how to alter or retain aspects of its order, he writes “Be it in matter of one kinde or of the other, what scripture doth plainelie deliver, to that the first place both of creditt and obedience is due; the next whereunto is whatsoever anie man can necessarelie conclude by force of reason; after these the voice of the Church succeedeth. That which the Church by her ecclesiasticall authoritie also shall probablie think and define to be true and good, must in congruitie of reason overrule all other inferior judgmentes whatsoever” (V.8.2). Here we find embedded the three legs of the fabled stool of Hooker: Scripture, tradition, and reason. Three things stand out to me. First, if this is a locus for Hooker’s stool, it is a decidedly wobbly stool. Scripture is clearly set apart as a primary locus of authority. Second, reason here again means something that is clearly discernible to any person. Reason then is not a private realm of personal interpretation or insight in the modern sense but rather a commonly held consensus. Finally, the function of this method is limited to the areas of order, polity, and practice. Theological doctrines around which the Church has derived consensus, especially Christological and Trinitarian doctrines, are not a subject for this approach.

Hooker’s fourth proposition is that of equity.  By this he means all of the grey areas in which church polity, as with any institution, necessarily operates. Here he states, “when the best thinges are not possiblem the best maie be made of those that are” (V.9.1). Implicit in this is the notion that no Church polity or governance is in itself perfect. Rather, allowances must be made on a regular basis for contingent circumstances in matters of order and polity. The specific issue lying behind this was Puritan concerns over ecclesiastical appointments. Hooker here argues that ecclesiastical appointments ought to occur on the basis of equity rather than abiding by hard and fast rules. Day to day affairs often need to be ordered according to the principle of equity as applied to widely diverging circumstances.

Following upon his four principles of reason, ancient practices of the Church, ecclesiastical authority, and equity, Hooker elucidates the principle that the “rule of mens private spirits [are] not safe in these cases to be followed” (V.10). Hooker urges that in matters where “the worde of God leaveth the Church to make choise of hir own ordinances, if against” the four principles he has set forth “it should be free for men to reprove, to disgrace, to reject at theire owne libertie what they see done and practised accordinge to order set downe . . . what other effect could hereupon ensewe, but the utter confusion of his Church under pretense of being taught, led, and gudied by his spirit” (V.10.1). In other words, when deciding upon matters of order and practice for the Church of England, these four principles are the means of discerning a way forward. Crucially, Hooker urges against individual interpretation of these matter or competing approaches followed by one congregation in one place and another approach by a congregation in a different place.

This final point helps us appreciate Hooker’s larger attempt to elucidate his four proposition for ordering the life of the Church of England. Against the his fear of a sectarian Puritan impulse, Hooker emphasizes a collective approach that mitigates against individualized interpretations or application concerning order and practice. This is a stance against an individual or sectarian application of reason or experience or interpretation of tradition. Whether one decides to imagine Hooker proposing a four-legged stool of reason, ancient practices of the Church,ecclesiastical authority, and equity or a traditional interpretation of Scripture, tradition and reason as a sort of three-legged stool, one must remember that Hooker envisions a method that is performed collectively for the life of the entire Church. It concerns order and practice, not settled doctrine. Personal preferences and insights are not the drivers of the decision making process but rather a consultation of a collective repository embedded within the life and structures of the Church itself.

Renunciation of Discipline in South Carolina?

The Lead.

In the link above, the news came out today that “The Disciplinary Board for Bishops has advised Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori that the majority of the 18-member panel has determined that Bishop Mark Lawrence of the Diocese of South Carolina has abandoned the Episcopal Church “by an open renunciation of the Discipline of the Church.”

While I am disquieted by the moves that Bishop Mark Lawrence has made regarding canonical changes as part of apparent efforts to ensure that parishes in the Diocese of South Carolina revert to the diocese and not The Episcopal Church in the case of a split, I have difficulty with the finding that these moves in themselves entail “an open renunciation of the Discipline of the Church.”

Bishop Lawrence has participated in the life of the church. Even with the events of General Convention that he and his deputation found difficult, even when most of the deputation left Convention early this summer, there still seems to have been an effort of Bishop Lawrence to keep walking with TEC. I fear that this ruling has ensured another schism in our life.

I suspect in many ways I view the Episcopal Church and its trajectory differently from the leadership of the Diocese of South Carolina yet I desire to remain in relationship with them. The ruling of the Disciplinary Board, while legally correct perhaps seems to me to have been a misstep for the larger goal of preserving the unity of the church.

Sermon on the Commemoration of Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley

Zephaniah 3:1-5

Psalm 142

1 Corinthians 3:9-14

John 15:20-16:1

 

All Saints Chapel

Church Divinity School of the Pacific

October 16, 2012

Dr. Daniel Joslyn-Siemiatkoski

 

“For we are God’s servants, working together; you are God’s field, God’s building.” (1 Cor 3:9)

 

On October 6, 1555 the former bishops of Worcester and London, Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, were executed by burning at the stake in Oxford.

Latimer and Ridley were tireless advocates of the Protestant Reformation as it unfolded in England.

They had worked diligently in advancing it during the reigns of both Henry VIII and Edward VI.

They stood for the great Reformation principles of Scripture, preaching, and worship in the language of the people.

And they died as staunch defenders of Protestantism, defying Queen Mary’s efforts to re-establish Roman Catholicism in England.

 

In Oxford there stands the Martyr’s Memorial to commemorate Latimer, Ridley, and Thomas Cranmer.

The history of this monument matters.

In the 1850s, this monument was erected by those opposed to the rise of Anglo-Catholicism.

Opponents of the so-called Oxford Movement, like the priest Charles Golightly, envisioned this monument to Protestant bishops martyred at the hands of a disgraced Catholic queen as a rebuke to the followers of John Henry Newman, Edward Pusey, John Keble, and the like.

The inscription on this monument reads in part:

“To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prelates of the Church of England, who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His sake”

But around this monument there stand other structures, symbols of the Catholic revival in the Church of England.

The Martyr’s Memorial is just next to St. Mary Magdalene’s which became an Anglo-Catholic bastion in the 20^th century.

Just up the road from the Martyr’s Memorial is Pusey House and its chapel, a historically important center for advancing the Anglo-Catholic movement.

 

One can look at the ecclesiastical geography of Oxford as a story of the on-going divisions within the Church of England concerning reform, catholicity, authority, and piety.

And we must remember that there were martyrs on all sides of the Protestant-Catholic divide in England and throughout Europe.

While there is something awe-inspiring in the willingness of a martyr to die for the sake of Christ, there is something horrifying when the executioner is another Christian.

Martyrs die out of the conviction that one is a member of a Church that rests upon the true foundation of Jesus Christ.

The death of a Christian at the hands of another undermines confidence in the nature of that very Church.

The execution of Latimer and Ridley under Mary, or Jesuits like Edmund Campion under Elizabeth, or even the divisions between Evangelicals and Catholics in later Anglicanism, show cracks in the edifice of God’s Church.

 

Paul addressed the problem of fissures threatening to bring down the Church in his first letter to the Corinthians.

Paul reminds us that amidst our awful divisions, we must acknowledge that no one party or faction can claim the Church for themselves.

 “Each builder must choose with care how to build on it. For no one can lay any foundation other than the one that has been laid; that foundation is Jesus Christ.” (1 Cor 3:10-11)

There is no doubting the deep faith of Latimer or Ridley or any other Protestant or Catholic martyrs from this era.

But the showdown of competing edifices in Oxford – a  Martyr’s Memorial here, an Anglo-Catholic chapel there – in a spirit of striving or rivalry must give us pause.

Paul urges not to let our differences define us but to look to Christ as the only and true foundation.

 

We must not enshrine our differences.

And we should look to our words and actions.

We should look closely at our assumptions and our certainties about our take on the Church.

Do we speak about other Christians disparagingly?

Have we broken ourselves up in factions?

Do we give off subtle messages of superiority if we set ourselves apart by our piety or our speech about other Christians?

Do we introduce divisions when we should seek unity?

Paul warns the Corinthians, he warns us, he warned Christians in the the sixteenth century, that builders and buildings are tested by fire while in this world.

We do not build Churches for ourselves.

We are all alike laboring in service to God’s plans laid down for the Church.

And that plan is to worship God and to proclaim the Good News of Jesus Christ.

Let us work together as one body, equally serving God, so together we can pass through the fire to be God’s Church together for the sake of the Gospel and for the sake of the world.

The Gospel of Jesus’ Wife: Update and Thoughts from a Rabbi

The story of the papyrus fragment labelled “The Gospel of Jesus’ Wife” has taken some significant turns in the week since the news of it was first reported. While the jury is still out regarding the authenticity of this document, it is important to note that there are significant questions in this regard. A recent post by Dr. James McGrath offers a roundup on this score. In my view, this aspect of the story is beneficial because it helps the larger public see how scholarship is conducted. Academics do not offer carefully worded statements simply to be opaque but rather because they appreciate that establishing certainty and fact can at times require time, effort, and careful investigation. In a context in which many governments seem eager to lay the axe to funding humanities programs in colleges and universities, offering a public example of how such disciplines go about their work is a good thing.

Another key aspect of the discussion about this papyrus is it returns attention to the historical Jesus and his Jewish context. A common trope is that it would have been out of the ordinary for a Jewish male not to have been married in the first century. On his blog, Tony Jones posted a guest opinion by Rabbi Joseph Edelheit in which he argued that divergence between Jews and Christians about the marital status of Jesus offers an opportunity for dialogue. Edelheit argues that Jews would assume the marital status of Jesus because of his identity as a Jew but Christians focus on Jesus as the risen and incarnate Messiah for whom marriage is not a possibility. He urges Jews to understand that when they engage with Christians, they are talking to believers whose faith is located in but transcends history. “But if the rabbi wants to understand how Christians must intellectually multi-task, having both a Jesus in history and a Christ beyond history, then listening might be the best tactic.” This suggests a divide that must be crossed in dialogue.

While I am sympathetic to what Edelheit is up to in terms of encouraging dialogue, I wonder about some of the underpinnings of his argument. Is it a priori that Christian faith requires a celibate Jesus?  More important for the work I do in Jewish-Christian relations, he seems to assume that it is appropriate for Christians to abandon belief in Jesus as a first-century Jew and maintain a belief in the Christ beyond history. There has been much work in Christian circles to retrieve the Jewish Jesus and we have only just begun to sort through the theological implications of this move. I would prefer that the “Gospel of Jesus’ Wife” move us to more deeply consider the Jewish context of Jesus than assume that it is rightly abandoned by Christian theology.