Archives for 2011

Is it true?, Christmas Day (A,B,C) – 2011

December 25, 2011

Isaiah 62:6-12; Psalm 97; Titus 3:4-7; Luke 2:(1-7) 8-20

And is it true? The choices of lessons for Christmas Day approach that question in two ways. St. Luke tells us the story, a story we’ve heard year by year. Because we are so familiar with the tale, its truth may not engage us anymore. Yes, it’s a beautiful story. A young girl gives birth to a baby in a cave used to house farm animals. The child is placed in a feeding trough. We don’t know whether Joseph was able to find a midwife to assist in the birth. We do know that they took shelter in the cave because there were “no vacancy” signs on the doors of all the inns, the motels of that day.

Bethlehem was full of visitors because a politician far away had decided on a census, a way to establish how many people there were in an area who could be taxed and what property and income they possessed. In this case, people were not counted where they lived; they were sent back to their ancestral hometowns. Beneath the story runs a tale of oppression, of people at the mercy of a tyrant, a people enslaved by conquerors. The story has a familiar ring to it even today. Dress it up with tinsel, with poinsettias, shining stars and angels if you will, but this is a story of oppression and vulnerability, of injustice with little mercy.

And is it true? It is certainly familiar. It rings true enough. Perhaps its telling again today may inspire us to show mercy and act kindly toward those in need. But the truth of this story lies deeper. It isn’t just a morality play, or a docudrama. So another choice for looking at the gospel today takes us deeper, much deeper. And that’s when things get complicated. We may, perhaps, accept the politics of the story, but can we get our heads around the theology of the story?

The word “theology” can be off-putting. We want a simple faith, even though we don’t like to be thought to be simple ourselves, and theology sounds complicated. Yet the first fourteen verses of St John’s Gospel, Chapter One, is anything but simple. It teaches that the baby born in a cave among farm animals is God the Word, the second Person of the Trinity.

And is it true? If we have much taste for a God, what we want and think we need is a powerful God. True, we want a god who is kind to us. God can be rough on those we don’t like, but must be compassionate to us. Yet Christmas Day reveals a vulnerable God, a helpless God, a baby God. It shows a God who needs parents and friends, who needs protection and care. What an extraordinary idea! This is a God who calls us to love him, even though he can’t do a thing for us except gurgle, smile, and even cry. Here’s a God who keeps us awake at night and yells for food.

Certainly any mother knows how wonderful it is to love and be loved by a baby. Even the hardest heart may be melted by the sight of a radiant mother and her baby. Christmas Day challenges us to see that sight, it calls us to allow our hearts to melt. We are called not to receive, but to give. We are called to give our hearts and love to God the Son, God the Baby, receiving nothing more, or less, than love’s reward. For love is a doing, a giving, a surrendering, a merging. It breaks down our walls of separation, our pride and bitterness, our self-assuredness and pretended autonomy. Christmas teaches us that before we receive from God we must first give ourselves to God unconditionally, come what may. And so God challenges us to see him as a baby, a dispossessed baby born in a cave and placed in a food trough.

John Betjeman, the English poet, wrote a poem called “Christmas.” Here is the last verse of that poem. Listen to it and take it to heart, and then give yourself to Jesus the Baby as he comes in Bread and Wine:

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare –
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

— Father Tony is rector of St Paul’s Episcopal Church, La Porte, Indiana, and an examining chaplain to the bishop of Northern Indiana. 

Let us whisper it, Christmas Eve (A,B,C) – 2011

December 24, 2011

Isaiah 9:2-7; Psalm 96; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)

Part of the wonder of this night is the possibility of the meeting of worlds, the coming together of time. We sing, “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” Though we live so long after those events in Bethlehem, tonight we find ourselves at the manger. In our mind’s eye, we imagine the holy family in the stable, the mother tired, but radiant; the breath of the animals visible in the cold night air. We hear the lowing of the cattle and the rustle of straw. But most of all, we gaze in wonder at the baby, this long-expected child.

What would we say if we were there? What would we add to Mary’s contented sighing and Joseph’s protective, “There, there”? For, as with all babies, just his existence is a gift. And as with all babies, it’s not just their infancy, but their futures we imagine and dream of and long for. But with this baby, this little one named Jesus, we have seen his future. We have glimpsed what lies ahead for him and what it means for us. So, what do we say to him as we take our place by his manger tonight?

In 1994 the Rev. Richard H. Schmidt wrote a reflection in Episcopal Life magazine entitled, “Christmas: Let Me Hold You, Dear Little Jesus.” Inspired by his image of holding the infant Christ, here are some words for our hearts’ prayer on this Christmas Eve:

Little Jesus, let us hold you now. On this holy night, when you are a newborn baby, let us cradle you in our arms. Let us hold you and keep you warm. Now, while you are small and vulnerable, let us watch over you. We want to hold you now, because many times in time to come, you will hold us.

Rest well, sweet baby. Rest your tiny hands. For though you are the King of kings, you will touch no silk, you will carry no gold. You will grasp no earthly scepter, sign no imperial decrees. You will use your hands for far more precious works: touching a leper’s wound, wiping away a widow’s tear, blessing and breaking bread, and giving it to your friends. Your hands, now so perfect, so tender, so tiny, will someday be wounded for us.

Sleep well, sweet baby. Rest your tiny eyes. For someday you will look at the world and you will see the pain and loneliness and ache that humans bear. You will look at us and see us just as we are, with all our sins and loveliness both. You will look and see the Christ within each one of us, and you will try to teach us to see it too.

Hush now, sweet baby. Rest your tiny mouth. For someday from your mouth eternity will speak. Your tongue will summon the dead to life. Your words will define grace, pronounce blessings, teach, and paint pictures with words so we too might see our eternal God the way you know God to be. Your mouth will speak forgiveness to those who wrong you, will invite us to paradise to be with you forever, will send us forth in your name to all the world. Your words will echo down through centuries, bringing meaning and hope to our lives.

Rest now, tiny child. Rest your infant feet. For someday you will walk many miles to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives. Someday you will stride out in power across billowing waves in a storm-tossed sea. Someday your feet will be anointed with oil by a woman who prepares you for death, and your feet will bear the same nail prints as your hands. Rest your feet now, for someday millions will follow in your footsteps.

And sweet little baby, with your little heart, how much love you will show. Rest now. And let us hold you on this holy night, for someday, you will hold us. Someday we will feel lost and lonely. Someday we will wonder – is this all there is? What does it mean? What am I here for?

Then you will come to us. You will not be a helpless infant then. When you come to find us, you will come as our Wonderful Counselor, our deliverer. You will tell us that you searched for us. You will call us each by name. And when you find us, you will rejoice. You will invite us to your banqueting table and nourish us with your very self. You will remind us that we belong to you; we are yours.

Little baby, let us hold you on this holy night, for someday you will hold us. Someday we will feel deep sadness and sorrow. Something will happen in our lifetimes that grieves us so deeply that we may wonder where you are. But you will come to us, then, not as a helpless baby, but as the Prince of Peace. You will remind us of the promises of God, of the strength of hope, of God’s deep loving kindness, God’s steadfast love. You will hold us close, and if we are quiet enough to hear, you will whisper to us that all will be well. All manner of things shall be well. You will tell us that you are here for us always, not just when we are empty enough to know we need you. You walk beside us, offering us your peace every day.

Sweet infant redeemer, let us hold you on this holy night, for someday you will hold us. Someday we will grow old or sick, our bodies will fail, and it will be time for us to rest from this world. Then you will come to us, not as a vulnerable baby, but as Mighty God, Everlasting Father. You will welcome us into eternal light and life. You will welcome us to a heavenly feast prepared since the beginning of time, a home and a place for us.

You will do all of these things for us at great cost to yourself. You will teach us the meaning of giving, all that we have and are, on behalf of goodness and love, no matter the cost.

But that will be someday. Tonight we adore you as a baby. We welcome you as a helpless, vulnerable babe, as the Almighty God who became a child so we could become full mature human beings; who was wrapped in swaddling cloths so we could be unraveled from the snares of death; who came on earth so we could live beneath the stars; who had no place in the inn, so you could prepare for us mansions in heaven; who became poor, so we could become rich; in whose weakness is our strength. This is the night, the wondrous night when the creatures hold our creator. This is the night of grace, when the Lord of heaven and earth stoops down, reverses roles, and allows us – the finite – to serve the infinite God.

And so, little Jesus, on this one night, let us hold you.

And let us whisper now the thanks that will be yours for all the years to come. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for loving us. We love you too.

 

— The Rev. Amy E. Richter is rector of St. Anne’s Episcopal Church in Annapolis, Md.

The call of Jesus to his disciples has not changed, Last Sunday After Pentecost / Christ the King – 2011

[RCL] Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24 and Psalm 100 (Track 2: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24 and Psalm 95:1-7a); Ephesians 1:15-23; Matthew 25:31-46 

The celebration of Christ the King Sunday arose when Pope Pius XI found the increasing secularism of modern society eroding people’s faith. This was in 1925, and the Fascists under Mussolini were making their presence felt in Italy. Pius thought it was necessary to remind the faithful that whatever political powers might hold sway, ultimately, it is Christ who is “King of kings and Lord of lords.”

It seems we keep having this conversation. The very first statement of Christian identity, the first creed, if you will, was “Jesus is Lord.” In the first century, the part that no one said aloud was: Jesus is Lord, not Caesar.

We are faced with a few issues in claiming that “Christ is King.” First, there is the fact that the original subversive nature of Christianity was subsumed into the Holy Roman Empire and made into a part of the power of the emperor, a fact that has colored organized Christianity ever since. By the time of the Protestant Reformation, it seemed perfectly reasonable that Europe should be divided among the Protestants and the Catholics, depending on the faith of the heads of state. The church has not always behaved as agents of the One on the throne in today’s gospel, who judges people by how they have treated the least among us; all too frequently, the church has participated in the political games that create winners and losers, groups with power and groups without. So as Christians, we are called to be aware of our own past and renounce the church’s interest in worldly power.

The second issue we confront is that the world has turned, and there are few kings anywhere. For the Western world, the monarchs who remain have nothing like the power of an emperor; they are figureheads who work cooperatively within constitutional monarchies. In the United States, furthermore, we had a revolution in order to separate ourselves from a despotic monarch, and our self-understanding as a nation includes a proud independence from the notion of monarchy.

So what do we mean when we affirm that Christ is King? What are we celebrating? How is this monarchy part of the Good News?

A quick peek at the headlines would raise some questions: if Christ is King, why is there so much violence and unrest in the world? If Christ is King, why are there children dying of malnutrition in refugee camps? If Christ is King, what are we to make of the world’s current crop of dictators and despots? If Christ is King, why are humans continuing to make choices that endanger and even eradicate other species who share with us “this fragile earth, our island home”?

Either Christ is not king, or he’s a neglectful king; or we’re talking about a reality that is hidden behind the everyday reality we read about in the news.

Today’s gospel suggests that there is a hidden quality we don’t see. Look at the surprise of those who meet the one seated on the throne: “When was it, Lord, that we saw you hungry and did not feed you?”

The Gospel of Matthew, which has been read for most of this year, points over and over to the kingdom of God as a hidden reality obscured by the world of human endeavor, a reality that peeks out occasionally, when Jesus does what Jesus does: he heals, he masters the chaotic elements of creation, he feeds people, he meets and loves people on the margins. In Matthew, Jesus says over and over that the kingdom is visible and available to his followers, as well, when we behave as citizens of that kingdom: when we serve the least, feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, visit the sick, and perhaps, above all, emulate Jesus when he speaks God’s truth to the powers that be.

There is, further, a subversive quality to the reality of the kingdom, a sense that those who see and understand it are from the margins of society rather than from the powerful and content center. In Matthew, the list of those who see and accept what Jesus has to offer includes a Roman centurion, a Canaanite woman, and Matthew, a despised tax collector. The disciples themselves are hardly the elite of Jerusalem; they are country bumpkins from the provinces, hardly the sort to set the world on fire. Yet all these people listen to Jesus and follow him, perhaps because the status quo has not given them very much.

While the world has changed over and over in the years since the Gospel of Matthew was written, the list of the vulnerable in today’s gospel has only grown. “The hungry” now means a billion people who go to bed every night with little or no food. “The thirsty,” means millions of people worldwide dealing with severe drought. “The sick,” includes millions of people infected with the most difficult and pernicious illnesses, including AIDS, malaria, and tuberculosis. And the United States leads the world in its share of “those in prison.” It is harder than ever to see the reality of God’s kingdom and the Lordship of Christ behind these devastating everyday realities. But it is easier than ever to see those on the margins whose needs are overwhelming.

The call of Jesus to his disciples has not changed. As followers of Jesus, we are called to behave as citizens of the kingdom, for love of the King.

The Episcopal Church at its General Convention in 2003 formally endorsed the United Nations’ Millennium Development Goals, and at each subsequent convention the church has taken further steps, including a pledge of 0.7% of its funds to bring these goals to fruition. Episcopal Relief & Development is involved in work all over the world that aims to help the most vulnerable – the hungry, the thirsty, the sick, the poor – and provide not only immediate relief, but assist in creating self-sustaining programs that will raise the standard of living for whole villages and areas.

The notion of the kingship of Christ, over against the reality in which we live, begs the question: are we behaving like citizens of the kingdom? Are the hungry and thirsty, the poor and neglected better off because of us? Is the reality of the expansive, all-encompassing love of God visible in what we do? In the end, this gospel says, that’s what matters in human existence. When we make choices about where to spend our time, our money, our energy, and our best gifts, we are making choices that build the kingdom – or don’t.

We are called by today’s gospel to understand ourselves as those who are called to embody the kingdom in the here and now, so that it can come in its fullness, and Christ will be king – because we choose to dwell in that kingdom.

What this feast day affirms is twofold: that Christ is King, all evidence in the current time to the contrary; and that what we do, the choices we make, matter very, very much.

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Written by the Rev. Kay Sylvester
The Rev. Kay Sylvester is the assistant rector at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Tustin, California. She is a teacher, trainer, retreat leader, and preschool chaplain. Her prior experience includes teaching piano and guitar, and selling volleyball and wrestling equipment.

Remembrance Sunday, Pentecost 22, Proper 28 – 2011

[RCL] Judges 4:1-7; Psalm 123; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11; Matthew 25:14-30

Today is Remembrance Sunday – the Sunday closest to November eleventh – the day World War I ended nearly a hundred years ago at the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month” of 1918. In the United Kingdom and in many Commonwealth countries, Remembrance Sunday is kept with great solemnity as an annual reminder of the evil of war and the sacrifice of those who have given their lives for their nation and for the cause of justice and freedom. Many people on this day attend worship, visit cemeteries, and wear a poppy flower on their lapels in commemoration of the day and what it represents.

Veterans Day, as November eleventh is now called in the United States, is not observed with perhaps the same widespread and popular involvement as is Remembrance Sunday in other lands. Still, it is appropriate for all of us from time to time to remember and honor those who have served their country in periods of both conflict and peace.

War is, of course, nothing new. And World War I, as we now know, far from being “the war to end war” in the catchphrase popularized a century ago by H.G. Wells, has sadly proved to be but one more in a long succession of wars and conflicts beginning before written history and extending right into our own times. Humankind, it seems, has yet to learn to settle its differences peaceably and equitably.

And tyrants, as we also realize only too well, do not easily give up their power and hegemony in the name of the common good and righteousness. Sometimes it takes a popular uprising, and the conflict and violence it entails, to bring change and, ironically, peace. We can only hope at this point that such will prove to be the case in the Middle East, as nations and peoples long demoralized and repressed now demand their rights and liberty.

Warfare and conflict, in fact, play an important part in the story of virtually every land and culture, including our own. Even scripture itself is replete with accounts of battles and clashes too numerous to count, all of which in some sense molded Israel into the people of God. Our first reading today from the Book of Judges provides us with one example.

And it is an interesting one at that – the story of “Deborah, a prophetess, wife of Lippidoth.” Her story exemplifies the familiar Biblical themes of sin and redemption. “The Israelites again did what is evil in the sight of the Lord,” we are told as the story unfolds, though of course without being given the details of their transgressions. God punishes his people for their unnamed misdeeds by seeing them sold “into the hand of King Jabin of Canaan,” who, in turn, oppresses them “cruelly for twenty years.”

The Israelites predictably “cried out to the Lord for help,” and through what must have seemed to them the unlikely intervention of Deborah – the only woman judge in Israel’s long history – an armed force of some “ten thousand” troops is organized and sent into battle. The people of Israel are at last rescued and their enemy vanquished. The narrative is nearly archetypal for every great conflict in the history of ancient Israel from the time of the Exodus to the era of the Maccabees.

While no one today would likely suggest that oppression and war are of necessity God’s punishment for sin, there is nevertheless surely something in our fallen nature that brings conflict in spite of our best intentions and determination to avoid it. Like the Israelites, we remain all too capable of doing “what is evil in the sight of the Lord.” That much has not changed. Nor for that matter has our need for redemption. Just as in the time of Deborah, it is still the Lord alone who can rescue us from our own worst instincts.

In the Prayers of the People during many of our Sunday liturgies today, we will once again pray “for the peace of the world.” It may seem sometimes a futile, even perfunctory, petition, as conflict and fear still remain the norms in lands far away and on the streets of many of our very own communities. Paul is doubtless right in what he bluntly tells the Thessalonians in our second reading: “When they say, ‘There is peace and security,’ then sudden destruction will come.” It seems sadly to be a fact of life as much today as it was in Paul’s time – not to mention in 1918.

The last combat survivors of World War I have only recently passed on. Our human link with that generation and its war has been broken forever. But our fervent prayers for peace and for those who have died in conflict continue unabated. After all, we can only ever hope for the miracle of peace when we also remember in prayer the cost of war.

Written by the Rev. Dr. Frank Hegedus
The Rev. Dr. Frank Hegedus is chaplain of St. Margaret’s Anglican Episcopal Church, www.anglicanbudapest.com, in Budapest, Hungary.

Love the Lord your God, Pentecost 21, Proper 27 – 2011

[RCL] Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25 and Psalm 78:1-7 or Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-16 (Track 2: Amos 5:18-24 and Wisdom of Solomon 6:17-20 or Psalm 70); 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18; Matthew 25:1-13

“You don’t know me? How could you not know me? You invited me to the wedding!” This parable is one of the stranger ones Jesus told. There are almost too many issues to wonder about and some of them are puzzling to say the least.

We realize there’s a potential problem when we hear that 10 young women went out to wait for the bridegroom and only five took extra oil. Ah, there’s a problem. This may easily turn out to be a lesson in being prepared. But there are other problems less easy to figure out.

In Jesus’ day, there would, indeed, be a procession in the evening, one in which the bride would be escorted from her father’s house to the wedding, accompanied by young girls carrying torches to light the way. However, Biblical scholar Richard Pervo, in an article in the journal “Tuesday Morning,” brings out the point that in this story there’s absolutely no mention of the bride, and even the bridegroom is unexplainably late in arriving. Were the bride or bridegroom unprepared in some way? We might all remember a wedding or two where the bride was late and people began shuffling their feet in nervous anticipation of a real problem. But this isn’t about the bride.

So, then we might look at the problem of the oil. We might think it wasn’t kind of the five young women not to give some of their oil to the ones who had none. Is this a parable that teaches about sharing? Anyway, where would five young women go at midnight to find a store open that would sell them oil? Another problem!

Finally, the bridegroom arrives, and with great rejoicing, the guests go into the banquet hall, with the exception of the five who are off looking for oil. When they finally arrive, they are not admitted because their host claims not to know them. Strange indeed. How could he not know people he’d invited? They were young girls, probably friends of the bride from the village. At least in this parable, unlike the one about the man who had no wedding garment, the unfortunate women were not bound hand and foot and cast into outer darkness where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!

So many questions; where do we start? The most helpful thing is to look at where this passage falls in the whole gospel of Matthew. If we were to back up to Chapter 24, we’d find Jesus talking about the destruction of the temple and the coming of the end times. That whole chapter is couched in eschatological images – the end of time, the Second Coming. We remember that Matthew’s audience was most likely Jews, and it was written around the year 90. A lot had happened to the Jews at that time. The temple had indeed been destroyed by that time. The fledgling church was growing to include the gentiles. The persecutions of the Christians had already begun under Nero, followed by Domitian. So, very likely, this passage is basically a warning to be prepared. Christians of that time believed the second coming of Christ was imminent, so being prepared was very important.

If we look at the very end of Matthew 24 we read: “The master of that servant will come on a day when he does not expect him and at an hour he is not aware of. He will cut him to pieces and assign him a place with the hypocrites, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Today’s reading begins with “At that time” – so we realize that this parable is a continuation of the point Jesus was making in Chapter 24. At that time– when the master returns, whenever that is – you must be ready.

But the end time has not yet come, has it? We’re still waiting; and that’s OK – we need the time. We suddenly realize that what this parable is really telling us is that we must live the way God wants us to live all the time, not just when we think the Second Coming may happen. Jesus often reminds his hearers that we know not the time nor the hour. We must not be like some of the early Christians who put off their baptism until they were on their deathbed so that they could be guaranteed a place in heaven – their souls being cleansed from sin by their last-minute baptism. We can’t play chicken with God. It’s not only juvenile, it’s hypocritical. And we know what Jesus says so often about hypocrites.

Today’s parable is one of the really interesting ones. In one way it’s full of questions on a very human level. What happened to the bride? Why was the bridegroom late? Why did he not recognize the young women? These are questions that would make a Bible study energetic!

On a soul-searching level, it’s very straightforward. Jesus is reminding us that we must live our lives as true children of God. Of course, we are human and we will sin. We will have times when we don’t share our oil, so to speak, whether that’s because of our selfishness or our own unpreparedness. But overall, we must seriously examine our hearts and souls each day and strive to be a witness to God’s love. Perhaps that could be a reason the bridegroom doesn’t recognize the five foolish virgins. Would God recognize us as children of God right now, today? Or would God see that Sunday in church is the only time we think about God or our spiritual lives?

The world today makes it very difficult to keep notice of our spiritual lives. We see entire institutions, governments, even the institutional church exhibiting less than laudable practices. We might wonder if the whole world has turned a blind eye to anything of God. We’re certainly not treating God’s gift of creation as a gift worth caring for. With all the difficulties and horrors we see happening all round us, we might even wonder where God is in all this.

That’s when we have to remember this parable. Every one of us must begin every day with the resolve to live as a child of God. It’s not easy. Those who do, we were reminded in the Beatitudes, often suffer for it. But it’s worth it. We must be the ones who point toward God in everything we do. That’s how we stay prepared. It’s through our daily kindnesses, our willingness to share our oil, whatever that might look like. It’s through our example of what’s important in our lives. With Christmas coming soon, do we find ourselves totally immersed in the consumer side of the holiday, or are we taking some time to pray, to find some quiet time to thank God and ask for God’s strength? Are we afraid to talk about the true meaning of Advent and the coming of our Savior among our own families and friends, because they believe Christmas is really about buying and selling? And yes, stores will be open at midnight, we’d be able to get our oil, but would we be welcome to the feast? Maybe not.

It’s up to us to live in a way so that we are always prepared. Quite honestly, living a life in which we’re always prepared is easy. All we have to do, all we’re asked to do by God is: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength; and love your neighbor as yourself.

Written by the Rev. Dr. Susanna Metz
The Rev. Dr. Susanna Metz is vicar of Petrockstowe in the Torridge Team, Diocese of Exeter, North Devon, England, and is the publisher of “Tuesday Morning,” a quarterly journal focused on lectionary-based preaching and ministry.

We carry on Jesus’ mission, All Saints’ Day (A) – 2011

November 1, 2011

Revelation 7:9-17; Psalm 34:1-10, 22; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12

In North Carolina, there is a parish called the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion: the Churches of the Frescoes. The parish has two worship spaces: St. Mary’s in West Jefferson, and Holy Trinity in Glendale Springs. The North Carolina artist, Ben Long, painted several frescoes between the two churches depicting an expectant Mary, John the Baptist, Jesus crucified, and the Last Supper. Long-time parishioners give lectures to groups that come to learn about the frescoes at the two churches.

One of the interesting anecdotes that a guide will tell you is that at the time Ben Long painted the first fresco, which was of Mary, he had used his pregnant wife as the model of the body and then used a waitress they met in Hickory as the model for the face. Furthermore, in his fresco of the Last Supper at Holy Trinity, he used people he knew as the models, including the priest who was there at the time. The priest requested to be painted as one of the servants who was carrying plates out of the room, so he is forever seen in the right-hand corner of that fresco, unobtrusively carrying his precious pottery away.

The fact that Mr. Long used real people to paint well-known saints encourages us to pause and think about what it must have been like for the models to pose, knowing that they were being painted as a saint – a person who was considered holy and benevolent – when they may have not felt that way themselves.

The experience of the Churches of the Frescoes puts in mind an even more recent project that has been done about saints. There is a church in downtown Los Angeles called the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. The Cathedral has very tall walls in the sanctuary on which the design team wanted to hang particular works of art. They hired artist John Nava, who developed what they now call the “Communion of Saints” tapestries. The tapestries have 135 saints and blesséd from throughout the ages on them, as well as 12 untitled figures, including children of all ages, to represent the many anonymous holy people in our midst.

The curious thing about the process of developing these tapestries was that the artist did not have many depictions of earlier saints in order to know what they looked like. He used death masks and early artwork to assist his images, but then he gathered people at random off the streets who looked like the particular saints he was trying to paint – people he saw at coffee shops and restaurants, people at the beach, people walking the dog, people like you and me.

Most people were flattered to be models. Some were believers, others were not, but when they were interviewed about the process, they almost all said the same thing: being a saint, being dressed in the clothes and learning about their saint’s story, made them want to act like the saint they were modeling. They felt better about life and felt connected to the world in a deeper way than ever before. And the fact is, they are. They are connected to the saints they modeled and they are connected to us and to Christ, as is seen when you enter the Cathedral’s sanctuary. The saints line the walls and they are all gazing toward the cross above the altar, marching toward it, just as the real saints did before them, and as we continue to do each week, including today, when we come to the altar at Eucharist, and as the next generations will do in the future. It is a powerful vision.

Now, we may not know each saint’s story, but we do know Jesus’ story, just as they did, and that is a powerful connector. It is a connection that is never lost or weakened, even though they are not present on earth with us. The gospel accounts tell us about Jesus, so we know of him in the historic sense, but our faith is what connects us with the mystery of life in Jesus. We hear the gospel stories about Him and stories of the saints’ encounters of Him and know our own stories, all of which are part of this greater story of life. We remember Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection each week at the Eucharist, and in turn, are “re-membered,” brought together, united in the Body of Christ. United in our common faith and story. And this re-membering, this unity, transforms us, so that we may go out renewed and strengthened by the knowledge of our belonging to God and of those who came before us and will come after us, belonging to God, too.

As Christians, we carry on Jesus’ mission of transforming the world by spreading the kingdom of God in our daily lives. And in a way, isn’t that what we do with any loved one not among us? Many times, we carry on their vision and make it ours so it will continue to be carried into the future. By living out the Christian mission, we honor God, we honor each other, and we honor the lives of those who came before us, who also held that same mission. Like them, once we have come to Jesus Christ, we are His own and remain that way, and will join the great multitude that was talked about in our scripture from Revelation, worshiping God and singing: “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever!”
— The Rev. Danáe Ashley is priest-in-charge of St. Edward the Confessor Episcopal Church in Wayzata, Minn., and was formerly in Diocese of Western North Carolina.

I wonder if anyone of us knows the kind of people that Jesus is talking about today, Pentecost 20, Proper 26 – 2011

[RCL] Joshua 3:7-17 and Psalm 107:1-7, 33-37 (Track 2: Micah 3:5-12 and Psalm 43); 1 Thessalonians 2:9-13; Matthew 23:1-12

I wonder if anyone of us knows the kind of people that Jesus is talking about today.

Clarence Jordan, in his Cotton Patch Gospel series, presents today’s reading from Matthew like this:

“Don’t let yourselves be called ‘Reverend,’ for you have the one pastor and you are all brothers. And don’t call any human being ‘father,’ for you have but one spiritual father; neither be called ‘Doctor,’ for you have one doctor – the Leader. Your top man shall be your houseboy. So who promotes himself gets bumped, and whoever bumps himself gets promoted.”

Clarence Jordan knew a little bit about these kinds of people; he even was one for time. Getting his Ph.D. in New Testament afforded Jordan with many of the honors that he, through the words of Jesus, finds troubling today. But Jordan did something unusual for his day, and it’s unusual today as well. He took the gospel seriously and formed an inter-racial Christian community. Now all this happened in the early 1940s, and it happened in South Georgia. “Dr. Jordan” became “farmer Clarence,” and all because of his devotion to his one teacher, Father, and Lord. Now, we are not all called to become farmers for Jesus, but we are all called to contend with what Jesus lays out for us today.

Today’s gospel reading comes from the long section in Matthew where Jesus is doing a lot of teaching. First, Jesus says that his followers ought to respect the authority of the Pharisees and the scribes. When Jesus says that they “sit on Moses’ seat,” he is, in effect, saying that these religious leaders have legitimate authority. Jesus never denounces the Law, the Torah, or the traditions of Israel. The original covenant, the first covenant, between God and Abraham, then through the life of Israel, was, and still is, in effect. Jesus is holding his listeners accountable to the Law. What Jesus is doing is lambasting these religious authorities for being too showy with the public expression of their faith. It is not that their phylacteries are wrong to wear; it’s that they have made a prayer shawl into an article of bragging.

After ridiculing the Pharisees and scribes for their showy spirituality, Jesus then goes on to say that we should recognize no rabbi, father, or teacher except Christ. This is not to be taken literally, but it is to be taken seriously. Of course, we all have fathers and teachers, but Jesus’ injunction is on our proper understanding of where we stand in the grand scheme of things. Here, Jesus is making a claim very much like the one that God made on Mount Sinai when he delivered the Ten Commandments to Moses. The first commandment was: you shall have no other gods before me. God expects us to trust him, solely and totally. God is reminding us that we all have the inclination within us to look around and try to make something complete us; this is the heart of idolatry. Things can never complete us, neither can people. It’s wrong on both counts, but it is especially unfair to make an idol of people. Why would we put such a burden on our spouses, our partners, our parents, our children? They cannot be God for us; only God can be God. It is God who is the source of our happiness, satisfaction, and hope.

This is precisely what Jesus is saying to us today. There’s only one father, there is only one rabbi, and there is only one teacher. There’s only one initiator of the Kingdom of God, and that is Jesus Christ. Of course, teachers and other mentors are good. We all have those special individuals who show us the path to approaching God, to deeper knowledge of ourselves and our Lord. But God is the goal, God is always the goal. And we never come to him but through his own bidding. God has made himself known to us first in the life of Israel, then through Jesus Christ, and now we know him through his Holy Spirit, which enables us to come to God.

Recognizing that there is only one God, one father, and one teacher is easier said than done. Usually, when we come to know something, we know it as fact and then proceed based on the facts. God has given us a peculiar commandment: to put all of our faith, hope, and trust in him and him alone. All the saints, sages, and scholars before us on our way to God have always put this kind of faith into terms dealing with trust. And the funny thing about it is that trust can only be built by extending it. When we trust someone, we don’t really know what’s going to happen. Trusting God is hard. If following God, completely and totally, were easy, everyone would be doing it.

It simply isn’t enough for us to be admirers of Christ, we need to be disciples. We become disciples by having one God, one teacher, and following him first. Our trust in God will cause His faithfulness to spring forward and drive us to deeper and deeper love for ourselves, our neighbors, and most importantly, for our God.

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Written by the Rev. Joshua Bowron
The Rev. Joshua Bowron is the senior assistant to the rector at Saint John’s Episcopal Church in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he lives with his wife and three children.

Faith, hope, and charity, Pentecost 19, Proper 25 – 2011

[RCL] Deuteronomy 34:1-12 and Psalm 90:1-6, 13-17 (Track 2: Leviticus 19:1-2, 15-18 and Psalm 1); 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46

Faith, hope, and charity are three of the seven virtues; the others are prudence, justice, temperance, and courage. Faith, hope, and charity are ascribed to St. Paul. Both his writings and ministry, as chronicled by the author of Acts, show that he taught and lived these three great virtues. Let’s take a look at each of them.

Faith is our heritage going back to Abraham, who was led with Sarah into the wilderness, always assured by God there was a plan and that his descendants would be like the stars of heaven. The Abrahamic journey is more than just a trip; it is a spiritual quest that still haunts us and inspires us today. We can picture them journeying through the desert, standing out under the stars at night, and wondering where they were destined to settle.

Moses, another great leader of faith, follows the path of Abraham and Sarah in his own journey from slavery to freedom with the people of Israel. The great faith expressed in the history of African Americans as they moved from slavery to freedom still shapes our church and its life today – faith that one day all people will walk together in harmony and diversity.

Faith is a great part of Jesus’ ministry. Jesus teaches us that faith like a mustard seed is sufficient. He teaches us what faith in God can do in the face of sadness and loss. And Jesus teaches us to have faith that the Father’s will be done, just as Christ himself did as he underwent the agony of the Garden on the night of his betrayal.

Faith is the dynamo of our religion, a faith that God is at work behind the headlines, in the streets and the desolate places, bringing about a plan of salvation; faith that all of us have a part in that plan; faith that one day there will be no more crying or weeping, but shouts of triumphant joy at the coming of the kingdom.

Meanwhile, practicing faith as a virtue remains an inspiration. “She is a real woman of faith.” “He may have lost his job, but he never lost his faith.” Faith, for us, is in believing there are answers to the question “Why?” And faith does not need to know the answer right now. Faith is waiting, knowing that God may have something better for us in mind.

Hope works in our lives, not because of what we do, but as the work of the Holy Spirit. The power of our faith causes us to dare to hope, even when the cynic denies it, and hope conquers our despair at the unhappiness and folly we see in the world.

Hope is framed in the things that are unseen, according to Paul. We won’t know what to hope for because we have not yet seen what it will be.

A close ally of faith, hope puts us in a place of anticipation, not silly excitement. Hope gives us our morning resolve to arise and get going because it is God’s day, and there will be something of beauty and wonder for us in it. This hope is found most profoundly in places where the future is mocked by poverty, cruelty, and indifference. It is also found in our culture among people who know their work is not in vain, that what they are doing somehow is preparing the way for the future, and that will be better because of what we do even now.

Charity is an act of love: something that burns white hot in us, again the work of the Spirit. Charity is unconditional in its application and causes us to give freely of our abundance to overcome scarcity. Charity is giving both of our treasure and talent, but also of our love for others. It places others first as an act of obedience, not second to our own needs.

Charity always has enough for others. It is what creates miracles when people in a church decide to do something for others and find an abundance of gifts for that ministry.

Charity does more than cause us to care, it causes us to care with boundaries that allow others to grow in grace, knowing they are supported by a fellowship that cares about them but will not overwhelm them.

Charity works when elaborate plans fail. It is simple in its application and does not understand complexity. It is sometimes compared to a lamp that sheds light in the darkness of human want, darkness that is the poverty of both spirit and purse.

All three of these virtues – faith, hope, and charity – are gifts of the Creator. They are not human inventions. They existed at the dawn of creation and are firmly planted by God in what it means to be human.

One can find them in today’s gospel reading in Jesus’ rabbinical response to the question put to him, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Jesus’ response is the summary of the law: to love God and our neighbor. In a few words Jesus summarizes all the teaching of the law and the prophets and includes, by implication, faith, hope and charity.

Who could love God and not have faith in what God is doing?

Who could love God and not have hope that God’s plan of salvation is being worked out daily and that we have a part in it?

Who could love their neighbor and not feel the heat of charity in their relationships with others we are sent to serve?

Asking the question about what God commands is good; but failure to heed the response is folly. The wisdom of the world knows little of the virtues; they are often replaced by greed, cynicism, and self-love. Christians are constantly challenged by the conflict between faith, hope, and charity and the world’s wisdom.

From today’s collect, we learn again that these gifts of God may be prayed for and increased in us:

Almighty and everlasting God, increase in us the gifts of faith, hope, and charity; and that we may obtain what you promise, make us love what you command; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

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Written by the Rev. Ben E. Helmer
Ben Helmer is vicar of St. James’ Episcopal Church in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. He lives with his wife in nearby Holiday Island. E-mail: bhelmer1247@msn.com.

You have to be taught to love, Pentecost 13, Proper 19 – 2011

[RCL] Exodus 14:19-31 and Psalm 114 or Exodus 15:1b-11,20-21 (or Genesis 50:15-21 and Psalm 103:(1-7), 8-13); Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35

You have to be taught to hate.

Little boys do not stitch together their own Klansman robes. Young girls do not look longingly at vests in shop windows with visions of being a suicide bomber. Yes, children will readily turn sticks into swords and guns for their play. But they do not name someone as “other,” the enemy, an object of hate. You have to be taught to name the ones to be feared and fought as “the Russians,” “the Vietnamese,” “the Iraqis.” And while the color of someone’s skin does not readily carry values, children can learn to hate based on the differing tones as easily as they can be taught to hate a group of people for the attractions they feel or the beliefs they hold.

The specific gravity of parents’ thoughts can tip the scales of a child’s heart very easily at the earliest age. Kids can barely grasp the meaning of “cat” and “cup” and “car,” and soon after are taught to use that God-given ability for speech to spew hate.

No one is immune to learning hatred. But the progress of a child’s path is much faster than an adult’s, and we are startled at a kindergartner who hates someone because he is a Jew, or because she is a Muslim, or because the family is Christian. The youngster is not clear on what the words mean, just that the person is “other,” and dangerous to all that is good – or so those he or she loves have said.

This same path to hate can be followed at any age. Teens with no hope of a future can readily be shown how to channel their hopelessness into hate. Grown men and women, too, can channel frustrations and fear into hatred.

How far hatred can carry the human heart was made crushingly clear ten years ago at 8:46 a.m., Eastern Daylight Time. American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston was bound for Los Angeles when it was hijacked 15 minutes into the flight. Loaded with fuel for the cross-country trip, the plane became a guided missile, slamming 91 people into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Within minutes, the media was going live with news of a terrible accident in New York as firefighters and policeman rushed through Manhattan commuter traffic toward the shredded remains of the upper floors of the tower.

Around the city, eyes looked toward the World Trade Center. Seventeen minutes after the first accident, many more people saw the impossible happen: a second airliner disappeared into the South Tower. The situation came into focus: no accident had occurred. America was under attack.

Unimaginable tragedies piled one upon another, with a plane crashing into the Pentagon and another into a Pennsylvania field. The Twin Towers fell. Before night fell, the nineteen hijackers had killed 2,973 people and sent out waves of grief around the world.

The hijackers had been fed a steady diet of hate. They were consumed by that hate and fed a desire to lash out against the United States in an act of terror more important to them than their own lives.

The carnage of that morning gouged a deep wound in the psyche of the United States. Ten years later, the wound has not completely healed. We fought back, first against the Taliban in Afghanistan, and then against Saddam Hussein and those who supported him in Iraq. Seal Team Six took out Osama Bin Laden, the man behind the terror. Yet none of these actions has brought healing. The surface is scarred over. The pain remains.

On this day, when we remember the carnage wrought, we can recall with crystal clarity the effects of distilled evil. We bring that collective pain here to the altar. And on this day of all days, we hear in our appointed readings of scripture, a mixed message. From Exodus, we get the story of the Children of Israel at the Red Sea. God drives back the water, the people cross on dry land and then Pharaoh and his pursuing army is drowned. The Lord has triumphed gloriously, the horse and rider he has thrown into the sea. This wrath of God seems appropriate. Good destroys evil.

But that is not what followed September 11. God’s judgment still hangs in the balance.

On this day, we also read Jesus’ parable of grace and forgiveness. Jesus tells of a man who is not simply in debt; he faces an impossibly large mountain of money to repay. One Biblical scholar, Eugene Boring, has calculated that as King Herod’s annual income from all taxes from all his territories was a mere 900 talents per year, the 10,000 talents would exceed all of the taxes of Syria, Phoenicia, Judea, and Samaria as well. The parable is hyperbole; no servant could amass a debt so large. Then, when the king cancels the debt, the man, now free from the burden, goes out to demand payment from someone who owes him a debt equal to a hundred days’ wages.

The first debt was so great as to be impossible either to owe or to pay. That is, until we realize that in the parable, it is we who are the debtors. We owe a debt to God that we cannot possibly repay. God has not only given us life, but continues to love us and want what is best for us when our every action falls short of the glory of God. Our sins mount up higher and higher until there is no way we could begin to atone for them. And through faith in Jesus, the Christ, we can repent, turn back from our sins, and find the debt has been canceled. And then, like the merciless servant, we go expecting everyone else to pay up for the hurts they cause us.

Jesus’ point is well made. God has forgiven each of us so much that we should go out to forgive others. But aren’t some acts too great to forgive? On this day of all days, we know how great an evil can grow within the confines of the human heart.

And this one day does not stand alone. World history is packed to the brim with acts of evil. Even within living memory, many of us have seen the killing fields of Cambodia, the wholesale slaughter of Stalin’s iron-fisted reign over Russia, and the genocide of Rwanda. We have learned that once we are taught to demonize those we hate, then any act can be justified. In the death camps of Nazi Germany, we discovered that one can be raised on the poetry of Rilke, the prose of Goethe, the breathtakingly beautiful compositions of Bach, and the moving operas of Wagner, yet use the finest tools of human understanding in the attempt to systematically wipe out a people.

Looking to these acts of extreme violence, we must ask, Are there not some crimes to heinous to forgive? And on this day, we ask, Isn’t forgiving the perpetrators of September 11 too much to ask? How could those of us who remain alive even have the right to forgive?

The answer from scripture is two-fold. First, scripture teaches that judgment is for God alone. Second, we are to forgive as we have been forgiven.

In the reading from Romans, Paul says, “Why do you pass judgment on your brother or sister? Or you, why do you despise your brother or sister? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of God.”

We are, each of us accountable for our actions before God. We are not accountable for the injury done to us, but for our reaction to that hurt. We are then accountable for the actions we do in reaction to the pain we are caused.

Jesus, who taught us to pray “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” called out from the cross, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” Yet, forgiveness can be so difficult. This is true at the global scale with an act like the terrorist attacks we remember today. And forgiveness can cut just as deep for those not directly touched by 9/11, who wonder if they can forgive a father who committed incest, a business partner who stole money, and too many other private tragedies to name.

Yet, not forgiving, means holding on to the hate. Not forgiving someone is like drinking poison in the hope that the other person will die.

This does not speak to how a nation should react when attacked by another nation or by terrorists. Instead, we are speaking about how one might react to the very personal hurt and betrayals he or she has suffered. Will you let hurt fester until it distills into hate? Or will you pray for the grace to forgive?

Archbishop Desmond Tutu knows about forgiveness through the daring act of helping lead South Africa through truth and reconciliation after the end of Apartheid. This involved thousands of acts of confession and forgiveness. He has written of this process saying, “Forgiveness does not mean condoning what has been done. It means taking what happened seriously and not minimizing it; drawing out the sting in the memory that threatens to poison our entire existence. It involves trying to understand the perpetrators and so have empathy, to try to stand in their shoes and appreciate the sort of pressures and influences that might have conditioned them.”

Forgiveness does not have to mean forgetting, and reconciliation is not always possible. Forgiveness means trusting judgment to God, and this is only possible by the grace that comes from God alone. Archbishop Tutu writes, “Forgiving means abandoning your right to pay back the perpetrator in his own coin, but it is a loss that liberates the victim.”

God became human in Jesus of Nazareth. He lived among us, not just teaching about love, but more importantly, showing us the love of God. Jesus chose to show power through his powerlessness on the cross. Jesus continually gave the example of turning the other cheek, of offering mercy, love, and forgiveness. God came in Jesus and offered us the redemptive power of his blood. He also gave us a pattern for how humans can live godly lives.

Jesus’ example was vital, as men and women do not naturally let go of past hurts. We have to learn grace and forgiveness. Children do not learn to forgive unless they are shown by example.

You have to be taught to love.

Written by the Rev. Canon Frank Logue
The Rev. Canon Frank Logue is the Canon to the Ordinary for the Diocese of Georgia.

In the image and likeness, Pentecost 18, Proper 24 – 2011

[RCL] Exodus 33:12-23 and Psalm 99 (Track 2: Isaiah 45:1-7 and Psalm 96:1-9, 10-13); 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10; Matthew 22:15-22

“Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” Generally quoted in its King James version, “Render unto Caesar,” this statement somehow comes easily adrift from its gospel moorings and is usually cited in support of political theories, from tax reforms to freedom of religion in the modern state.

We see this sentence in today’s reading from Matthew 22. Jesus and his closest disciples are in one of the temple courtyards in Jerusalem, where Jesus has been storytelling and teaching. Much of that teaching has been in response to an earlier direct challenge to his authority. Toward the end of a series of teaching parables in Chapters 21 and 22, Matthew tells us that “when the chief priests and the Pharisees heard these parables, they realized that he was speaking about them. They wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowds because the crowds regarded Jesus as a prophet.”

Questions about Jesus’ authority had been aired throughout his public ministry, but Matthew wants us to understand that the tensions between Jesus and the temple authorities are now reaching critical proportions. In Chapter 22, Matthew writes: “the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap [Jesus] in what he said.”

And now Jesus comes under even more pressure: the temple authorities – chief priests and Pharisees – have already determined to remove him from the public eye. Now the Pharisees have brought members of the Herodians along. These are the courtiers and clients of Herod, Rome’s puppet king. They represent not only the Jewish ruling authority in Judaea outside the city of Jerusalem, but also the threat of Roman intervention in Jesus’ public ministry. Notoriously, Herod and his followers accommodated the Roman occupying power. So when the Herodians show up to listen to Jesus, the authority of Caesar has now entered the scene.

Having built up the picture of powerful challengers, both temple and Roman, now surrounding Jesus on all sides, Matthew shifts gear. Introducing a moment of exaggerated inflated rhetoric typical of any eastern Mediterranean court at that time, he briefly breaks the narrative tension. Pharisees and Herodians alike begin by flattering Jesus, saying, “Teacher we know that you are sincere and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one, for you do not regard people with partiality.”

Entrapment begins with flattery. But then comes what is doubtless meant to be an absolutely killer question: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not?”

A moment’s thought should convince us, however, that this method of entrapping Jesus in his teaching might be a bit silly. Certainly, the Pharisees have heard Jesus teaching before now and they have watched him outwit all his interlocutors, often with quite edgy humor. Their question wants a yes or no answer. Yes, would mean that Jesus is prepared to abandon God’s priorities to accommodate the Romans. No, would mean Jesus is willing to side with rebel political groups such as the Zealots who want the Romans out at all costs. Do they not realize Jesus is too clever to fall into such a simple trap?

We notice that Jesus does not answer the question at all. He turns to the people nearest to him and asks for the coin that is used for the tax. It is interesting that Jesus does not carry such a coin himself. In his lifetime, there were several different tax obligations for a Jew in Jerusalem: the temple tithe incumbent upon all Jews meant one sort of coinage, but the newest tax was the Roman colonial land tax, payable in imperially minted coinage. The fact that Jesus apparently has no such coin is one of several indications in the gospels that Jesus of Nazareth owned neither urban property in lower Galilee nor farmland anywhere else. Jesus stands there, in other words, without any worldly resources in a potentially dangerous situation.

“Whose head is on this coin?” he asks. Because the coin is the Roman land-tax coin, the answer is “Caesar’s.” It might be the head of Augustus, or it might be the head of Tiberius, Matthew does not need to say. Jesus represents the authority neither of the temple nor of the Roman governor. The future of those two political entities, and the monetary tributes that support them, is not Jesus’ future. Nor are those entities the governing factor in the future of those early Christians for whom Matthew is writing. When Matthew’s Jesus says that Pharisee and Herodian alike should give Caesar his due, and give God his due, there is only one future at stake, and that is God’s future. For Matthew, as for ourselves, the reality of that future lies with Jesus: the living face of God.

Shortly after this episode, there is a brief confrontation between Jesus and members of another political body, the Sadducee party; and Matthew notes that from that day, nobody dared to ask Jesus any more questions. The gospel continues with a set of future-oriented parables and sayings given mostly to Jesus’ closest disciples, and then transitions into the great Passion narrative. We leave the reading ruminating upon the possibility that this business never was about coins, tax reforms, or divided loyalties.

As it says in the first chapter of Genesis, we are created “in the image and likeness” of God. We try to live into that empowering image in our political adherences, our economic aims for ourselves and our neighbors, our hopes for our families and friends. In all the complex claims on our loyalties and our finances, our tax dollars and our pension funds, for the children of God there is always and only ever this one priority and one claim upon our lives: the authoritative call and presence of God.

Written by the Rev. Angela V. Askew
The Rev. Angela V. Askew is now retired, but still lives in Brooklyn, New York.