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Episcopal Church on Edisto

9/21/14
Matthew 20:1-6
From todays collect: Grant us, Lord, even now, while we are placed among things that are passing
away, to hold fast to those that shall endure.
An elderly woman who survived World War II as a child sits in a Parisian park, watching her
grandson play some game on his small hand-held device, fascinated that his opponent isnt
anyone he actually knows but simply a name foating somewhere out there in the ether. She
imagines the electromagnetic waves traveling into and out of [his] machine, bending around
them, just as [her great uncle] used to describe [radio waves], except now a thousand times
more crisscross the air than when he lived - maybe a million times more. Torrents of text
conversations, tides of cell conversations, of television programs, of e-mail, vast networks of
fber and wire interlaced above and beneath the city, passing through buildings, arcing between
transmitters in Metro tunnels, between antennas atop buildings, from lampposts with cellular
transmitters in them, commercials for Carrefour and Evian and pre-baked toaster pastries
fashing into space and back to earth again, Im going to be late and Maybe we should get
reservations? and Pick up avocados and What did he say? and ten thousand I miss yous, ffty
thousand I love yous, hate mail and appointment reminders and market updates, jewelry ads,
cofee ads, furniture ads fying invisibly over the warrens of Paris, over the battlefelds and
tombs, over the Ardennes, over the Rhine, over Belgium and Denmark, over the scarred and
ever-shifting landscapes we call nations. And is it so hard to believe that souls might also
travel those paths? . . . that [they] might harry the sky in focks, like egrets, like terns, like
starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fy about, faded but audible if you listen closely
enough? They fow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip though your jacket and shirt and
breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of
every life lived, every sentence spoken every word transmitted still reverberating within it.
Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world.
We rise again in the grass. In the fowers. In songs.
And so a great novel, ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE , by Anthony Doerr, draws to a close
with a lyrical rendition of heaven, or at least with a vision of some kind of transcendent
immortality that connects the life we know with the lives weve lost . . . and perhaps with our own
hopes for what awaits us on the other side of death. Its a vision that many orthodox
theologians, at least those with constrained imaginations, might have trouble with. No doctrinal
purity, in fact no doctrine at all . . . not even a passing reference to God, much less to the risen
Christ. But it strikes me as a profoundly spiritual vision, poetry rather than dogma, and I wonder
if it couldnt strike a deeper chord within many of us than the doctrines of bodily resurrection and
apocryphal end times we ever so faithfully recite and espouse every week here in church.
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How many people do you know who say they believe in God, or that they value spirituality, but
they dont have much use for religion . . . or at least not institutional religion? Perhaps there are
times when you might have felt that way yourself. I know I have. Well I wouldnt be too quick to
condemn or even dispute that kind of thinking. For all that the history and community and insight
and refection and inspiration and structure our church life afords us, and I think it gives each of
us A LOT in both common and unique ways, I wonder if it doesnt also constrain us almost as
signifcantly. As Paul Tillich famously points out, its so easy to confuse the trappings of religion -
the architecture, the symbols, the charismatic clergy, the sacraments, even the code of ethics -
for what theyre intended to represent.
Please understand Im not trying to dis what any of us is about here in this little church that both
Sue and I have come to love, as I know many of you have. My intention is only to encourage all
of us, while savoring the jewel thats the discipline and practice of our Episcopal faith, to give
free reign to our imaginations, doubts, misgivings and, above all, honesty when trying to fnd our
place with God and each other. It takes commitment and vigilance and respect for our minds to
wear our faith enthusiastically while resisting any seduction away from our curiosity and
wonderment and a little healthy skepticism.
When I was in my early 30s, I acquired an 82 year old goddaughter, the grandmother of one of
my closest friends and an occasional parishioner in the church where I was an associate. Midge
Parsons was a piece of work, one of those larger than life fgures who most defnitely marched
to her own drummer. She was both a fancy Park Avenue matriarch and an enthusiastic surfer
(not of the web but the waves). It was quite an experience preparing her for her baptism, which
was by her choice, a full immersion in the surf. After spending several sessions taking her
through the Prayer Book catechism, outlining church history, exploring Christian theology and
explaining what I could of Episcopal polity, I thought Id done an admirable job of getting her
ready. The night before her baptism we were having dinner with my friend, her grandson, who
was to be the priest baptizing her, as well as several other family members and friends, and the
conversation quite naturally turned to faith. We were all waxing poetic about our own beliefs and
experiences, when Midge piped up, Well, I love God and the church, its that JESUS I cant
stand. And we all got it. All that catechetical preparation was fne, but nobody was going to get
her to like that unkempt hippie walking around in his sandals, causing all sorts of disruptions and
what have you. And so we baptized into the one, holy catholic and apostolic church an adult with
a mind as sharp as a tack who didnt have much truck with Jesus Christ.
And yet I cant think of anyone I ever saw baptized who was a better Christian than Midge
Parsons. There wasnt an ounce of pretense about her. She not only was so generous shed
virtually give you the shirt of her back, shed also do it with unparalleled authenticity and
panache. I wonder if many of you dont have a Midge Parsons or two in your lives. If so, I hope
youll hear that persons unique take on life as a valued part of Gods limitless grace, even if it
fies in the face of any orthodoxy you may be used to.
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So what do you make of this strange landowner who pays laborers who work for an hour the
same as those who toil away all day? Weve probably heard this preached about enough to be
familiar with several explanations that are meant to edify us and ease our misgivings. God is
great and were not so great, so who are we to question Gods ways? We cant circumscribe
God . . . hold God to our standards. Gods grace is limitless. Jesus didnt just come for the
saints; he came to forgive sinners. We could even mine the old saw that comparisons are
odious from the parable.
But still, doesnt this one rankle a little bit? Are all your misgivings allayed? I can promise you
Midge Parsons would hear every explanation and justifcation preachers and scholars could
come up with for this parable and would still say something like theres that JESUS again.
And maybe thats the point. No matter how hard we try to understand and accept what our faith
brings to us, were going to end up short . . . were going to be frustrated, if not put of. The last
shall be frst, and the frst last. Theres a certain ring to it, alright, but theres a lot more to it than
a simple equation, more than well ever fully metabolize. Faith isnt about having the answers;
its about a lifelong struggle pursuing the questions.
In his letter to the Philippians, St. Paul writes, Beware of the dogs, beware of the evil
workers, beware of those who mutilate the fesh! Some commentators contend that hes
simply favoring his mission to the Gentiles, as opposed to the Jews, who mutilate the fesh
through circumcision, but I fnd this, like many 1st Century references, not only irrelevant to us
but horribly limiting what we can take from it. Watch out for the dogs, the mutilators another
translation has it. Who, or what, are these dogs, these mutilators? Well, when I think of
mutilation today, I dont think of circumcision - I think of James Foley and Steven Sotlof, their
severed heads a sickening draw for disafected misanthropes and fundamentalist fanatics . . . I
think of people jumping from the top stories of burning skyscrapers or crushed in collapsing
staircases. I think of the distended bellies of millions of starving kids. I even think of the rapidly
accelerating mutilation of this fragile earth, our island home. And then I think of the perils
inherent in blind adherence to any orthodoxy, or perhaps better said - any perceived orthodoxy.
It isnt Islam or any other established institution that brings about mutilations - mutilations not
only of people but of standards of decency and respect and integrity - that, arguably, most
imperil us and our civilization today. Its the zealotry, the insanity, that grows out of jingoistic,
bellicose, narcissistic allegiance to narrow, constrained closed of readings of orthodoxy, be they
Muslim, Christian, Jewish, or even secular or nationalistic.
What I love about the vision of transcendence the author and his protagonist conjure at the end
of ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE is how its grounded in deep appreciation and humble
refection of so many things of ordinary value. Its grounded in the world as we know it, in smart
phones and electrons and radio waves and everyday thoughts and sentiments. And its also
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grounded in the boundless horizons of imagination, the source of creativity that speaks to the
divine spark within us. And fnally, and most importantly, its grounded in love - not in some glib
sentiment but in a hard won connection with the very force that binds us, one to another, and
each of us to the sustaining, redemptive source of all life and all that is, to the ends of the
universe. I can only hope that this and every resonant vision of the transcendent wonder of
creation will always enhance and enrich rather than threaten our faith. Theres no limit to the
glory of what God has wrought in love. Be open to it.
Amen.