Proper 14 C - August 11, 2013

Do you know what is the single most frequent thing Jesus said in the Bible? Repent? I am the truth?    Nope.  DO NOT BE AFRAID.     Because it’s so frequently repeated, including the opening of today’s Gospel reading, it’s worth considering why.  What is it we’re not supposed to be afraid of, exactly? 

The Gospel tells us to have your lamps lit and be dressed for action.   If you are, the master Jesus, will come, be glad and serve you.  But, if you are not ready – woe to you.   We should be afraid if we aren’t ready, with our lamps lit, and dressed for action.  Ok.  Just be ready.  Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to stand guard all the time.  I can’t be ready for the master to come all the time.  I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to see.  

As a culture, we’ve gotten to a place where we have too much stuff and too many events to worry about. We have so much to maintain and protect and store and plan.   Doing all that - with and for all that – seems to take a lot of our time and energy.   And it’s not just our culture.  It’s been a problem throughout history.

The reading from Isaiah today says that the Lord does not delight in the blood of bulls, does not seek offerings, cannot endure solemn assemblies with inequity.  It sounds to me like the Lord was telling the people that God did not enjoy the stuff and rituals and offerings on which humanity had learned to rely, which humanity thought was all it needed to DO to garner support and love from God.  Rather, the Lord says that meaningless celebrations, “Have become a burden to me”   Not just disliked, but burdensome.  

While we don’t perform sacrifices with the blood of bulls, we have our own share of meaningless celebrations, and useless offerings and we think going through the motions of meaningless ceremonies will make us right with God.  Sometimes, we even treasure those precious things.    And if that’s where our treasure is, according to today’s Gospel, that’s where our heart is.  

That is not where I want my heart to be, with all my worldly treasures or meaningless rituals.   It sounds so . . . shallow and materialistic.  Besides, my so-called treasures have become a burden to me too.  I worry about maintaining my stuff, planning my events, performing my rituals.   We all have something here and now over which we fret and stew.  While we’re fretting, we risk being found asleep when the master comes.  In that state of worry, it’s hard to be standing guard and dressed for action in case the master comes.  

We know that giving alms certainly benefits the people receiving alms. We absolutely should share our wealth. But the idea of selling your belongings is also hugely beneficial for us, the ones who are shedding and sharing our excess.  We benefit, because we can rid ourselves of some of those things over which we fret, and events about which we worry.  
  
I’m guessing everyone who has stuff or events crowding their life, has, at one time or another thought better of it, and realized the absurdity of having and doing too much.  To some degree, everyone has come to the same conclusion as Jesus, if perhaps not so extreme. We know we need to get rid of something.  Maybe I don’t need to sell all my belongings, but I could get rid of this pile of clutter.  Have a garage sale. Skip that event.  Not host the obligatory party.  And yet, we always come back for more.    So why do we continue to turn to those things?  

For me, I think it’s largely due to what I can see and know and experience in this world.  I go to the store, and I see things that are advertised as making me healthier, happier, wiser, stronger.  I want to be all those things.  I buy into the societal norms of popularity and acceptance. And while I may know, deep down that they won’t really solve anything, I can see them, and plan them, and buy them. They are known, tangible, and kinetically real.  It’s all too easy to place my faith in those things.  

Unfortunately, the pretty clear message from today’s readings is that that is not where I should put my faith, in those things God finds burdensome. 

 I am, rather, to put my faith in God.  

But God is so . . invisible and amorphous and intangible.  It’s so hard to put your faith in things unseen, even though that’s exactly what Hebrews says we’re supposed to do.  It’s so hard to actually have faith, to have “assurance of things hoped for but not seen”. 

This reminds me of a scene from John Irving’s book, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Two of the characters are walking home after dark and pass the local Catholic High School, just as they’re talking about faith. One character Owen, has faith, and the other, John, does not understand the concept.  There’s a statute of Mother Mary at the school that on this evening, the two cannot see because of the dark and the fog.  Owen asks John if the statue is there.  John says of course it is.  But how do you know?  You can’t see it.   Because it was there earlier.  Yes, but you don’t know that it’s there now.  This is how Owen described faith.  It’s a certainty in something unseen.  You just know, without really being able to know.  

Faith is a funny thing, and I’m still learning what it is, and what it is not.   For me, faith is not knowledge, or intelligence, or proof.    I don’t know about God like I know the sum of 2+2.   

Faith is also not the same as hope.  You know that team-building game where you stand with your back to someone and fall backwards blindly while your team catches you.  Whenever I’ve done that, I’ve held out hope that I’d be caught.  Like faith, I didn’t know and couldn’t know if I’d be caught.  Unlike faith, I wasn’t sure I’d be caught. I was hoping, although I knew there was a chance I’d land hard, despite my hopes.    Now if I had Faith that I’d be caught, I’d have assurance. I’d somehow KNOW.  

Lastly, faith is not easy.  Unlike the falling into the arms of your team-mate game, faith in God demands that we fall into the arms of an invisible God.  Tough.  We are asked to have the assurance that God will be there, even though we can see nothing, touch nothing, buy nothing, plan nothing, to serve as our insurance.  And in fact, all those things we try to buy, or do to insure God’s grace is precisely what God finds burdensome.  We are just supposed to have faith.  Not in those things, but in God.  

So how is it we can ever have faith, faith enough to get rid of those silly things we own, buy store, do. Those treasures on earth, often secured as our insurance for God’s grace.  

We can only have faith because it is a gift from God. We are continually asking God for faith.  And with that faith, we really can give up those things, because we learn to rely on God, without the insurance of any of the stuff we as humans are so wont to do and buy.  

Having faith really isn't ours to do.  It’s ours to ask God to do.  Then we just lean back, and fall into God.  

Henri Nouwen, a famous theologian had a great epiphany about faith at the circus, of all places.  One day, he was sitting with Rodleigh, the head of a trapeze troupe that performed in Germany.  Rodleigh said, 'As a flyer, I must have complete trust in my catcher. The public might think that I am the great star of the trapeze, but the real star is Joe, my catcher. He has to be there for me with split-second precision and grab me out of the air as I come to him in the long jump. The secret,' Rodleigh said, 'is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe, I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me.  

Nouwen was surprised.  You do nothing? He asked. 

'Nothing,' Rodleigh repeated. 'The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It's Joe's task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe's wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly, and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.'

As it says in Hebrews, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. We must ask God for that faith, day by day and week by week.  And with that faith, that assurance, we need to fall into God.  With outstretched arms, we can have the absolute  conviction that our unseen catcher will always be there to catch us when we fly.