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The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost Nehemiah 9:16-20 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A letter from Paul to the Romans 8:35-39 Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. The Gospel according to Matthew 14:13-21 Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, ‘This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.’ Jesus said to them, ‘They need not go away; you give them something to eat.’ They replied, ‘We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.’ And he said, ‘Bring them here to me.’ Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Please indulge me, or maybe humor me, for a few minutes while I muse about preaching. A wise friend of mine once told me that most good sermons are given when the preacher is talking to himself. I think there’s some truth in that; lots of times I’m preaching to myself and letting you listen in. I hope you don’t feel used by that, but I have to tell you, I feel that it is one of the privileges of my position. I am required to keep the discipline of standing up here and thinking out loud, knowing that you are listening. That is a privilege because it is a powerful thing to read passages from the Bible (that you don’t get to pick), pray about them, study about them, and then speak your thoughts out loud, publicly, regarding the core issues of life — meaning, purpose, existence, relationship. Keeping that discipline forces me to confront myself regarding my most basic and fundamental beliefs. I have to ask myself almost every week: "Do I believe that? Will I say what’s easy or expected whether I believe it or not (a great temptation to preachers)? What do I believe about that? Am I willing to say that?" And then, I speak. In public. And you hold me to it. You expect me to live like that. You make me accountable. This speaking in public about things so dear is a powerful process of character formation. You know, one of the reasons we Episcopalians say the liturgy over and over again, Sunday in and Sunday out, is that we believe deep in our bones that by saying something out loud and in public, over the course of time, we tend to become the kind of people we say we are. Over the course of time, we tend more and more to become, "Alleluia, Christ is risen" people. "Blessed be his kingdom" people. "Give us this day our daily bread" people. "Strength and courage to love and serve you" people. "Thanks be to God" people. Saying it out loud and in public, being accountable for it, shapes who we are, forms our character. And I am privileged to be required to keep that discipline in the pulpit. Okay, the musing is over. The reason I shared all that with you is that I am pretty clear that this morning, I am preaching to myself. This morning, we read one of the most powerful, soaring, poetic, inspirational passages not only in the Bible, but in the history of world literature. It is from St. Paul’s letter to the young Christian community in Rome. Paul wasn’t writing something to become part of the Bible. He was introducing himself. He wanted the Romans to help the Christians in Palestine who were suffering because of a drought. This was a fund-raising letter, and Paul was telling them what he believed about the most dear things in order to establish his credentials. He was, in a manner, speaking out loud. And as we listen again to what he said, I want you to remember that Paul has earned the right to say it. This is no abstract, intellectual talk. By the time he wrote this, Paul had seen (and before his conversion participated in) the murder of Christians because of their faith. Because of his faith, he had been beaten repeatedly, attacked by mobs, shipwrecked, and held in chains. He was dogged by a painful illness. The greatest superpower on earth considered him an unpatriotic dissident. His own appointment with the executioner, with the sword that will behead him, lay ahead. (He didn’t know that when he wrote this letter, but he couldn’t have been very surprised when it come to pass.) So Paul has earned the right to say out loud these astounding words:
So, why am I preaching to myself about this? Well, what Paul says really gets to the heart of the matter, don’t you think? "Who will separate us, what will separate us, from the love of Christ? Will any of the hardships we endure, any of the powers we can think of, anything in all creation? No! In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us, and nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." It really gets to the heart of the matter, and it makes us ask the question, "Do I really believe that?" I’ll speak for myself: yes, I believe that, but my belief gets weary, and that’s when I need to say it out loud. My belief gets weary when we’ve had as many deaths as we’ve had this year. My belief gets weary when I see so much illness and disease and pain as we have going on right now. My belief gets weary when men fly planes into towers, demonstrating that they hate so much that they are willing to die for their hatred. My belief gets weary when I hear "war on terrorism" replacing "Communist threat" as the new catch phrase to allow politicians and judges to threaten the principles that make me love this land in the name of saving this land. My belief gets weary when Palestinian and Israeli forces take turns killing each other’s children. My belief gets weary when I think that we live in the richest nation in history and tolerate such poverty. My belief gets weary when I think of the great sin of slavery that was practiced for two hundred and fifty years in this country, and when I think of the bitter fruit that we continue to harvest from that blood-soaked field. My belief gets weary when I think of how our society is so fractured by this silly, sinful concept of race, and I can see very little progress. There are lots of things that make me weary. Things that don’t change my mind, but threaten my hope. Things that don’t change my belief, but make me weary. When I read what our new Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, said after the September 11 attacks, I asked myself, "Can I believe that? Can I really believe it? Can I live it? Or is my faith too weary?" Here is what he said:
Powerful words. And if we are going to believe them, if, in this sinful, hurting, violent world, we are really going to believe and live that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ, that we are more than conquerors through him who loved us, then we are going to need, not a weary belief, but a fresh belief. Not a tired faith, but a renewed faith. Not a faith that says, "I’m going to put in my time, work my shift in life, and go to church and try to be nice," but a faith that says, "We shall overcome! We will not fear; we will not despair; for we know that we cannot be separated from the love of God! When all seems lost and hopeless, we will remember that we are conquerors. Conquerors of all that tries to separate us from the love of God." We often read this passage from Romans at funeral services. It is certainly appropriate, and I want it read at mine. But if when you were alive, when you were in the midst of persecution and famine and nakedness and peril and the sword, if when you faced death and life and all the powers in creation, if then you did not live these words, if then you did not live as one who was a conqueror, if then you did not live as one who could not be separated from the love of God in Christ, then it is too late for you if we read them at your funeral. So, this one time, I’m going to be generous. (Don’t get used to it.) I’m going to share my discipline, my privilege, of saying dear things out loud during the sermon — things that shape us by the saying of them. I’m going to do that because even though I’ve been preaching to myself, I think some of you get weary too. So I think we need to say out loud Paul’s powerful, soaring, poetic, inspirational hymn of comfort, and assurance, and refreshment. I’m going to ask you to do something very unEpiscopalian. I’m going to ask you to find a partner, and say these words while looking him or her in the face. You see, saying things that are dear just doesn’t have the same power if you say them in unison into the empty space above our heads in this big room. It means more when you say dear things while you are looking a brother or sister in the face. So, if you will, find a partner. And then, if you believe it, even if your belief is weary, repeat after me:
The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA
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