Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Isaiah 6:1-8; Ps 138; I Cor 15:1-11; Luke 5: 1-11
Rev’d Dr. Deborah Meister, ODM
Good morning. It’s been a long year since last Sunday, hasn’t it? How are you? I mean really: how are you? Take a moment; breathe; feel what is in your heart.
All this week, the people I’ve met have been shocked, frightened, anxious, and angry; I have been, too. It is becoming increasingly clear that the dismantling of democracy which is in progress to the south may have strong negative impacts on our lives. And it’s not just us. Around the world, the poor and the sick are suffering and beginning to die. Our elected leaders are discussing both the economic and the military implications, and we would be fools to pretend this was not happening.
Instead of preaching to you today in any ordinary sense today, I’d like to have a heart-to-heart. I’d like to speak with you about sin; that is, about the spiritual corruption which lies beneath our present situation.
Sin gets a bad rap among Anglicans: we don’t like to talk about it. Part of that is a reaction to the ways that the word is used and mis-used in other denominations — used and misused to shame or condemn people for who they are rather than for the choices they have made. Alongside that, there is the trivialization of sin in much of our popular culture: we “sin” by eating an extra brownie or taking a “sinfully wonderful” vacation on the beach. But the state of the world should be enough to reveal the bankruptcy of that trivialization. Sin — as Christ defined it — is a real and present danger.
When the Gospels speak of sin, they speak of spiritual paralysis. They speak of the arrogance which allows some people to think they are better than others, not because of how they have lived, but because of who they are. They speak of people in bondage to base desires: gluttony, addiction, the lust for power, cruelty, ethnic division, religious superiority, breach of trust, self-interest (defined against, rather than with, the well-being of others), indifference to the needs of the poor and the sick, and the unforgivingness which binds other people to the worst aspects of themselves so that we can feel superior to them. And here’s the kicker: by belittling sin, or ignoring it, we allow it to find root-room and grow.
Martin Luther described Christians with the phrase simul justus et peccator, that is, each of us is, at the same time, justified, or made righteous by Christ, and still a sinner. We see a striking image of that in today’s reading from Isaiah: the young prophet, lifted out of his ordinary life into the throne-room of God, crying out “Woe is me! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts!” Faced with the beauty of God, Isaiah feels his own unworthiness to be there: his mouth tastes of his own dust. Many of us have known that sense, even without a visionary experience: handed a newborn child, or even a puppy, part of the wonderment is that someone like us should be entrusted with something so beautiful and precious and unmarred.
Luther was trying to help people out of his own spiritual trap: the kind of crazy-making perfectionism which makes us unable to accept that God might love us, even as we are. We, in our time, are more likely to err in the other direction: aiming to be “good enough” and to let God make up the rest, rather than trying to lay hold of the full spiritual freedom God wishes to give us.
Freedom is the key word here. Freedom from fear; freedom from hatred; freedom from the clamoring cry of our own unmet needs. In Scripture, it’s not freedom to do whatever we like, but freedom to live according to the deepest values of our heart, no matter what consequences we might have to pay. Our culture teaches us to fear: to fear change, to fear death, even other people. Jesus teaches us that none of these has power over our lives unless we give it to them. He teaches us to share the good things of this earth, rather than to hoard or exploit them. He teaches us that other people are the gift of God, not threats to our well-being. He teaches us that power was made to serve the welfare of others, not to dominate them. He teaches us that death is not the end, but only the beginning of deeper life with God. Accepting those teachings, really accepting them on a deep level, allows us to make free choices even under duress. It allows us to live with integrity.
To the extent that we remain unconverted, we are open to manipulation by those who would use our weakness to build their power. We are seeing that manipulation all around us right now; we’re swimming in it, and it’s only going to get worse: speeches and messages and advertising that teach us to fear those who are different, to crush those who are vulnerable, to put our own interests (as someone else defines them) front and center, to allow the weak to fall by the wayside — or to push them there. But the messages of open hatred are just the leading edge. At this point, even the so-called civic virtues — things like patriotism, pride in our national accomplishments, and even our sense of belonging — are being used to rip us apart from one another.
The antidote, my friends, is to go deep: to seek true holiness, that purity in heart which allows us to see God. I don’t believe that that purity is actually perfection; I believe it’s a deep humility which allows us to see ourselves as we are, and to ask God for what we may yet become. When Peter realizes the power that is in Christ, he cries out, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” — and yet, he does not actually leave. When Jesus calls him, Peter follows. When Isaiah wails about his sin, an angel comes to him with a burning coal and touches his lips and heals him. And in the moments after that profound transformation, the prophet cries out, “Here I am; send me.” Faced with the truth of his own life, each man chooses to throw in with Jesus, full weight.
Full weight means bringing our whole self to God, both what is beautiful and what is broken. It means marrying the work of our hands and our lives to the life of prayer. To be so profoundly grounded in prayer and in the truth of God’s love that we bear that love into all our life. It’s to know that in turning to God as our center, we are simultaneously turning toward the world, for all things are held in Christ.
There’s a cartoon going around this week in which a man says, playing on some common spiritual wisdom, “I want to live in the moment; just not this moment!” And yet, Rowan Williams reminds us, “the great breakthrough comes when we no longer want to be anywhere but where we are and let God work through our engagement with the here and now.” (Luminaries, 69) Our lives are not an accident. Our choices, good and bad, have led us to where we are. Where we are, Christ is, and if we throw in with Christ, no force in heaven or on earth can compel us the violate the truth of that redeeming and all-encompassing love. We must tend our souls, so that that can be true.
Start and end your day in prayer. Not by reciting some laundry-list of needs, but by speaking to God as you would to your closest friend. Read Scripture daily, or at least, most days. Journal or create something. Take time away from your screens and your podcasts and your music. Listen to the voice of your own soul. Walk or run or dance or play.
Yesterday afternoon, I took my dog and went to Mount Royal. The sun gleamed on the snow, and everywhere, there were people enjoying the day. They spoke a babble of languages, and they were skiing, sledding, skating, playing with children, or just walking arm in arm. It was the most peaceful, innocent scene imaginable, and it is what God wishes for us. Not some dour, joyless life, but the simple enjoyment of what God gives us with open hands. Steep yourself in that, my friends. Underneath all the rumblings of our time, beauty and goodness and truth remain. Cherish them, and they will nourish you for the days to come.
And so we pray,
Merciful Lord, grant to thy faithful people
pardon and peace, that we may be cleansed
from all our sins and serve thee with a
quiet mind, through Jesus Christ our Lord.