A Sinful Woman Forgiven

What happens when you invite Jesus to come under your roof? The answer is, not always what you might expect. That, at least, was the experience of the Pharisee who invited Jesus to eat with him.

I want to talk about that encounter in a moment, but first let me begin by observing that throughout most of his earthly ministry Jesus had no home to speak of, which partly explains why there are so many stories of him in the homes of other people. “Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” (Luke 9:58) It’s easy for us to forget that Jesus had to rely on the hospitality of others for basic things like food and shelter. What better way for the faithful to give as well as to receive? God’s coming among us was to be a two-way street: while Jesus taught and healed he needed hospitality and wherever he stayed he was usually, but not always, an honored guest.

Inviting Jesus to come under your roof was no guarantee of a quiet and peaceful evening. At the home of Martha, Mary and Lazarus at Bethany, Jesus argued with Judas about money. In another home where Jesus stayed, the roof of the home literally came off, so that a paralysed man could be lowered into the same room as Jesus. In today’s gospel, Jesus dines with a Pharisee, and in the course of the meal conveys some uncomfortable home truths to his host.

Exercising hospitality is one of the ways we please God. Remember how the Lord appeared mysteriously as three men to Abraham and Sarah in the desert, and how Abraham gave them water, washed their feet and gave them shade under the oaks of Mamre? Sarah baked them some bread, and Abraham ordered a calf, “tender and good”, to be cooked and served to the strangers. Abraham was unstinting in his hospitality to the Lord. Remember too what the writer of the letter to the Hebrews states: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2)

Showing hospitality is, or at least should be, integral to our lives as people of God. And like all things that matter, it is important that we get it right. I don’t think the Pharisee in today’s gospel got it right - he got part of it right, but left out some essential aspects of hospitality which exposed him to God’s anger, as expressed through Jesus. Let’s revisit the scene once more.

A Pharisee has asked Jesus to eat with him. There are few instances recorded in the gospels of Jesus eating with Pharisees. At a banquet such as the one to which Jesus is invited the guests left their sandals at the door and reclined on low couches with their feet behind them. We can assume that the Pharisee who invited Jesus respected Jesus to some degree and indeed at one point he refers to Jesus as “Teacher” or Rabbi. Nothing seems amiss until a third party - a woman whom the Pharisee describes as a “sinner” - enters the room. In ancient homes there was more public access than in modern ones, so the woman could simply have wandered in from outside. When she comes into the room she brings an unexpected emotional charge, for as soon as she sees Jesus, even before she utters a word or does anything, she is in tears.

Her tears remind me of a midday Mass I attended many years ago at St Peter’s, Eaton Square in London. There were no more than five people in the congregation. One man, whom I had not seen at Mass before, approached the altar at the giving of communion with tears in his eyes. As he held out his hand to receive the sacrament, his tears flowed ever more freely. Instead of saying “Amen” he said “Thank you” - I doubt I have ever heard those two words said with such gratitude or feeling. Because of him, I began to cry as well. Jesus was present under our roof and our emotions and feelings were being stirred at a deep level.

The woman in Jesus’ story has her sins forgiven: a generous act because her sins were many. Jesus tells her, “your faith has saved you.” It is important to note here that it was her faith, not her love, that saved her. Her love flows towards the man who does not condemn her, but who sees her faith and trust in God. And how beautifully she expresses that love, by kneeling down and washing Jesus’ feet with her tears and hair, and then anointing his feet with ointment.

Contrast her action to what the Pharisee does, or doesn’t do. Although he has provided Jesus with a meal, in other ways he is less than generous. Jesus judges him next to the woman, whom the Pharisee regarded as unclean; yet by Jesus’ reckoning it is the woman who is justified while it is the Pharisee who has fallen short. Jesus tells him:

“I entered your house [and] you gave me no water for my feet...You gave me no kiss...You did not anoint my head with oil.”

By contrast, Jesus says to the woman: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” Yet God’s peace was not reserved solely for the woman - it was available to the Pharisee as well, but his half-hearted attempt at hospitality has denied him access to that peace. We can guess what was going through his mind; perhaps he was afraid of what the other Pharisees might think, by inviting this radical preacher and teacher into his house. He receives Jesus with formal politeness but no great warmth, refusing the small gestures of hospitality which make all the difference between a proper welcome and a perfunctory one. In effect he wishes to assert some misguided sense of superiority over his guest, but it only exposes him as a poor host, caring more about himself and about what others may think of him. It is the Pharisee, the so-called man of God, who is revealed to be deficient in the spirit of God. The woman, despite or perhaps because of her sinfulness, throws herself on the mercy of God who forgives her her sin.

This is a story about the risks you take in inviting Jesus to come under your roof. At some point in our faith journeys, we must all make this invitation. “Jesus, I want you to come into my life.” But what would happen if he did? That’s impossible to predict, and so it is a risky venture. Do you have a list of demands ready for him? My advice would be to tear them up and throw them away. Jesus knows what you need better than you know yourself. Do you wonder that Jesus would be interested in someone as unimportant as you? Jesus always honors and responds to those who call upon him.

When Jesus comes into your life there is every possibility of your life changing. If nothing changes, then your welcome is not whole hearted enough, as the Pharisee learned the hard way. Be wholehearted in your invitation, and trust God to do the right thing for you. If evidence were needed of the power of Jesus to change lives, we see it in the example of the woman whose gratitude overflowed in tears of love in response to God’s mercy. And for good measure, at the end of our reading, there is a roll call of women whose lives were cured by Jesus, and who in turn gave their lives and resources to support the mission of the church.

So practice the hospitality of a true believer. Invite Jesus in, treat him as an honored guest, and ask him for nothing more than mercy. For we are all sinners, and all have need of his healing and forgiving love.

Preached by Father David Beresford

12 June 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Spread the Word

Elijah is a great, old-school, brand-name prophet. His raising of the son of the Widow of Zarephath is one of the really compelling biblical stories. There he is in the upper room, mysteriously battling with God and death to revive the boy. He stretches out upon the corpse—imagine!--and cries out to God. He asks God the big questions: Why did you do this? Why would you bring tragedy upon a house to which you have specifically sent me?

And God certainly did send him, in true prophetic style. Elijah had been living in a ravine and was being fed by ravens, and when the water in that area dried up (as a result of his own prophetic declaration), God told him to go to Zarephath because there was a woman in that town who would feed him.

Ever the obedient servant, Elijah arrives in that town to find that the widow in question is in such dire distress that she has almost nothing to give him. “I am just gathering sticks,” she says, “to take home so I can cook the small amount of food we have left, and feed it to my son before we die.” It’s a mark of Elijah’s vast confidence in God that he can tell her not to be afraid, to give him some part of what she has, for her jar of flour and her jug of oil will never run out. And Elijah’s astonishing prophetic word is true. Elijah is a great prophet.

So when the woman’s son then dies later of an unrelated illness, Elijah is truly put to the test as a prophet. The widow confronts him directly: “What do you have against me, man of God?” And Elijah too confronts God: “Why have you brought tragedy even on this widow with whom I am staying?” His revival of the widow’s son is mysterious and dramatic. He carries the boy upstairs and puts him on his own bed and stretches out on top of him three times, and the boy comes back to life. And the woman sees that he is a man of God and his word it true.

Who doesn’t want to be like Elijah? He is larger than life, epic, legendary. This story is so powerful that Elijah’s protégé, the prophet Elisha, also enacts a version of it, raising a woman’s son from the dead by stretching himself out on top of the body three times. That mysterious gesture, so powerful and visceral, lets us know that these are no ordinary holy men.

By comparison, Jesus’s version of this story is almost understated. He sees the widow of Nain, is moved with compassion for her, touches the funeral bier, and brings her son back to life. I don’t mean to downplay our Lord’s revival of the widow’s son, but this story, which only Luke tells, doesn’t have the wealth of detail and drama that even John’s story about raising Lazarus gives us. There aren’t really any pyrotechnics. It’s just a touching story. Literally a touching story. Jesus is touched by the woman’s suffering and he touches back, stretching his hand out to make contact with her loss. It’s impressive but it’s very simple.

There is one other difference between the story of Jesus and the stories of Elijah and Elisha. Did you notice it? Jesus is surrounded by a crowd. In fact, there is an interesting clash of crowds in this story. Jesus and his disciples and a great crowd of people come to the entrance of the town and they are met by the widow and the body of her son and a crowd of mourners in a funeral procession. And what happens in that crowd feels subtle but it’s really important.

Some of the people there that day think they are part of a funeral, some think they are following a prophet, but nobody is prepared for what actually happens. Nobody is quite ready for new life. We hear that fear seizes all of them and they are amazed by Jesus. And they spread the word “throughout Judea and all of the surrounding country.” Even the son who is raised from the dead sits up and begins talking. It’s what happens in that crowd that grabs my imagination this morning.

You see, I’ve been worrying about crowds lately. I’ve been worrying about what happens when we gather together at, say, political rallies. I’ve been worrying about how crowds clash with one another, worrying about what our political conventions are going to be like in Cleveland and here in Philadelphia this summer. I’ve been looking at crowds and wondering where they are going. Looking and wondering about whether we can hold together as a group. We’ve been feeling the power of crowds a lot, and it hasn’t been good.

And I’m grateful that in this story from Luke there is more than just a compelling performance by a lone prophetic figure. I’m grateful that Jesus is doing more than establishing himself as a holy man. I’m grateful beyond words that in Jesus God is touching us, individually and in groups. And I’m humbled by the sense of a call that comes with this story of new life.

Those crowds outside the town of Nain had come for sharply different reasons. Some thought they were at a funeral and some thought they were following a holy man, but none of them were prepared to be so radically changed by what they saw that day. Nobody knew that at the end of that day they would themselves be evangelists. But they were. They spread that story all around the surrounding country. That story spread to you and me, and it still has the power to catch us up and change us and call us to witness.

How many of us are willing to spread the word that there is a kingdom of heaven forming here on earth, and that in that kingdom it’s possible to know peace and forgiveness and new life? How many of us are prepared to live in the truth of the Resurrection? How many of us are willing to admit that in Christ, even in times like these, it’s still possible to come together and be changed by the touch of God? That it’s possible to reach out and be moved by compassion instead of being deadlocked and polarized and fearful and obsessed with our divisions? How many of us are really ready to see death replaced by life?

Do you want that? Do you really want it with your whole being? Because right now is a really good time for us to be putting the focus on the witness we bear. Right now is a really good time for us to feel that touch and hear that call and see that rebirth happening in our midst. Right now we need Jesus. We may feel that we are in a funeral procession or we may feel comforted that we are following a holy man, but neither stance is enough for Jesus. Jesus needs us to be touched and healed and ready to bear witness. Jesus needs us to be the kind of crowd that can stay with him. Did you notice that about this crowd? They are unusually good. They don’t question Jesus or ask him by what authority he raises the young man. They don’t try to drive him off a cliff or ask him to keep quiet. They don’t question his pedigree or his logic or his timing. They are afraid but they let themselves be expanded by the power of God working among them. And then they come to life and they tell everybody what they’ve experienced.

Maybe you aren’t the prophet Elijah. But you are part of a crowd that has seen Jesus. You’ve seen him time and time again, haven’t you, raising someone to a life that never seemed possible? You’ve known hope in improbable moments, right? You’ve felt yourself moved by something joyful even on the darkest of days. You’ve kept coming back here in spite of suffering and in spite of yourself and in spite of all of us and our woeful inadequacies. You’ve been made into a disciple and given a call and a vision. And now Jesus needs you to tell all the surrounding country. You’ve had that experience of faith for them as well as for yourself, and now they—that world out there, that city, that country, that democracy—they need you to spread the word.

One final thought: we in the Episcopal Church have been asked to bear witness to gun violence this Sunday. We were asked to wear orange to show our solidarity with the victims of shootings in this city and throughout our nation. Our particular liturgical tradition doesn’t lend itself well to orange stoles or other shocking liturgical innovations, but please don’t think for a moment that this “ordinary” green isn’t a statement of compassion and profound solidarity. Gun violence, and our polarization as a country around gun violence, and our despair and our fear and our passivity, are sure signs that we are in need of conversion and new life and the touch of Jesus. Our call is clear, and our prophet is Christ himself. 

So let me say it again: Jesus needs you to tell all the surrounding country about the new life you’ve witnessed. That world out there, that city, that country, that democracy, that worrisome crowd: they need you to spread the word.

Preached by Mother Nora Johnson

5 June 2016

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Known and Unknown

The Israelites in the wilderness knew a great deal. They knew what it was to be a slave, and they knew what it was to be free. They knew what it was to eat lamb standing up with sandals on their feet and their hearts beating hard inside their chests. They knew what it was to walk through a sea on dry ground while the water rose up like walls. They knew what it was to see themselves saved, and they knew what it was to watch men die.

They also knew what it was to walk. And walk. And walk. They knew the feel of sand between their toes, the itch of fresh sunburn on bald scalps. They knew the sound the wind makes just before a storm and the clean, metallic taste of water streaming from a rock. They knew joy and fear, they knew hunger and frustration, they knew the barren, bleached sky of noonday and the brilliant dance of stars at night.

What they did not know was manna. They knew bread of all shapes and sizes – bread for mealtime, bread for the sacrifice, bread for the Sabbath, even bread with no yeast. But until that first morning when the soft seeds of manna appeared on the ground, they did not know this bread. Later, years later, when their journey was ended, Moses reminded them of this, that, in the words of one translation, this manna was something they had not known and which their fathers had not known, given to them by God in order to make them know that not by bread alone do humans stay-alive.*

For the Israelites, the appearance of manna was something entirely new. We know the manna is coming, because we know the story. We know that when the Israelites are complaining about the pangs in their belly and bemoaning the lost flesh-pots of Egypt, God will send them manna from heaven to cover the ground like frost. We know that this manna can be crushed up to make flour for bread. We know that the manna lasts only one day, except on the Sabbath, when it miraculously lasts two.

We know all of this, but to the Israelites, all of this was new. Who knows what they had been expecting. Maybe they thought that God would provide a random barley field in the desert. Maybe they thought that each morning God would send a flock of slow, fat birds over their camps. Maybe they thought that in this wonderful wilderness, God would make bread or cheese or lambs grow on trees. But God did none of these things. While the Israelites may have been looking for magical pop-up gardens and herds of slow-witted and slower-footed animals, God was preparing something.. …else. Something new, something no one had ever seen before, because God had never made it before. Bread from heaven. Manna from the mind of God, little seeds of divine imagination right there on the ground, given to God’s people so that they would now know – know that their food, and their drink, and their bodies, and their hearts, and their love and their longings and their very lives came only from God’s own hand.

Later, much later, in the heart of the Promised Land, a son of those wandering Israelites tells a crowd of curious onlookers and faithful followers that God is not finished with holy surprises. There are more in store, more things that they had not known which were about to be made known. I am the bread of life, he says. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh. And to the Israelites, all of this was, again, new. They knew bread, of course – the bread of the sacrifice and the bread of the Sabbath, the flat, cracked bread of the Passover. And now they even knew the bread of the exile and the manna made in heaven. But this bread – living bread, flesh that offers them eternal life? This is bread that they did not know.

And so they ask Jesus – what in the Lord God’s little green earth are you talking about? How can you give us your flesh to eat in any way that isn’t incredibly disgusting and, frankly, pretty un-kosher? We know bread, we even know some miraculous bread, and your flesh is not it. So what, pray tell, are you going on about?

But Jesus, as he so often does, chooses to answer not the how of their questions but the why. Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man, you have no life in you. The one who eats this bread will live forever. In other words, I don’t know what you were expecting, but I am what you’ve got. You may have been expecting bread that would grow your children tall and strong so that they could overcome the might of any Roman soldier, but I am not that bread. You may have been expecting bread that would make your wives bear twins and more twins so that your people would swarm this land and squeeze out your occupiers, but I am not that bread. You may have been expecting bread that would give you long years and great wisdom so that you could outlast anyone else who lays claim to this land, but I am not that bread.

I am this bread, and this bread is something…else. Something new, something no one has ever seen before, because God has never made it before. Bread that is the very Son of God, God’s own self, made flesh, right here on the ground. Bread that is offered and broken so that you will now know – know that your food, and your drink, and your bodies, and your hearts, and your salvation come from God’s own hand.

So today, I’m struck by the question – why do I think I’m so special? Why do we think that I know what this bread is all about? Today, on this great feast of Corpus Christi, why do I we sometimes imagine that I we understand all of this – that I know everything there is to know about this bread? Why do I speak about the real presence of Christ in this bread as if it’s something w I e could map out in a Venn diagram? Christ, bread, the middle part. Why do I expect that we know all that there is to know?

And we do, don’t we? It’s all too easy for us to come to this altar rail thinking that we know what’s coming. A little wafer, dry, without much flavor, sometimes round, sometimes, when it’s broken off from the priest host, oblong and angular – a rhombus of holiness. We know what it feels like in our hands, we know what it tastes like on our tongues. We even know what it feels like in our hearts. We know that we will feel comfort, or awe. We know that we will feel relief, or strength. We know that we will feel strangely warmed or righteously stirred. It’s easy to think we will know the thing that is going to happen to us when we kneel here, to know what God is going to do for us here.

But the great and glorious fact is that we do not know. We do not know what God is up to in this moment, in this church, at this altar, within this bread. And if Holy Scripture shows us anything, it is that we should expect to be surprised. We should expect that God is going to give us something holy and new, something wholly unanticipated. We might come expecting peace and instead find a restlessness that leads us to seek our rest deeper within the heart of God. We might come expecting to have a deeply personal experience of the risen Christ and instead find ourselves drawn to serve Christ’s body in the neighbor who kneels beside us at the rail. We might come seeking nothing and yet find ourselves filled with a sense of God’s nearness.

We do not know what we will find here, but we can know that whatever we find will be absolutely real – not something easy that will flop down on our plate like a bird already browned in butter, but something that provides just what we need, for just the time we need it. We can know that here will find something that requires something of us – a response, a gentle kneading and shaping of the heart. We can know that here God provides not something that meets all of our expectations so that we can close the book on our journeys, but something that demands openness, an open mouth, an open heart, a life open to the workings of Christ.

You and I know a great deal. We know that this bread is offered for us. We know that this bread is given to us by God’s own hand to feed us in ways only God can truly imagine. And we know that Christ is present in this bread in a magnificent, unfathomable way. What we do not know is the height and depth and breadth of the love that lives within this bread. What we do not know is everything that this love has in store for us. What we do not know is wonderful.

*Translation paraphrased from Everett Fox

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

29 May 2016, the Solemnity of Corpus Christi

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia