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February 11, 2007

Epiphany 6
St. Edmund’s, San Marino
The Rev. Rob Fisher

 

Sixth Sunday after Epiphany ­ Texts: Jeremiah 17:5-10; 1 Corinthians 15:12-20; Luke 6:17-26; Psalm 1

 

May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of our hearts, be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer ­ Amen.

On Tuesday morning, I went to Huntington Hospital to visit a parishioner who was having outpatient surgery.

I arrived in darkness, parked my car and entered the lobby. It was just before six o’clock in a.m., and besides the security person out front, and a guy water blasting the sidewalks around the entrance, the hospital was deserted. Soon, this space would be filled with people—doctors, nurses, patients and their loved ones. But at that hour it was very quiet and peaceful.

I thought of the many life-changing events that had occurred in that large hospital building. I knew that many people had left their earthly lives there. But also, from the lobby I could see through the windows and into the halls where Sarah and I spent the first nervous and joyful days of Zoe’s life. Just steps away from where I stood was the room where our baby was born into the world less than five months ago. Some of you may have been born at that hospital, also. Or gave birth to your children. Or said goodbye to a loved one.

Hospitals are places where we have to face the awesome reality of our mortality.

On my way out, I had a few minutes to spare before another early appointment, so I wandered past the elevator that would have brought me to my car, and discovered a beautiful garden located to the side of the hospital entrance.

I walked through the garden under the purple, pre-dawn sky, and felt the stillness of the morning. There was a slight chill in the air that felt pleasant, promising a beautiful day to come. On the horizon, I saw a glow of orange, lighting the tips of the San Gabriel Mountains far to the east. There were ripples of clouds that were lit in thin bands of red, becoming gradually brighter as I watched them.

I stood at the edge and looked over, up above the traffic on Fair Oaks and California, and I saw the city of Pasadena coming to life.

***

In today’s gospel Jesus says:

Blessed are you who are poor,

for yours is the kingdom of God.

 

Blessed are you who are hungry now,

for you will be filled.

 

Blessed are you who weep now,

for you will laugh.

 

He then goes on to say:

 

But woe to you who are rich,

for you have received your consolation.

 

Woe to you who are full now,

for you will be hungry.

 

Woe to you who are laughing now,

for you will mourn and weep.

 

Woe to you when all speak well of you,

for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.

 

This passage, at first glance, is about how to live. How do we handle our worldly goods, our riches. Do we give generously, or do we hoard what we’ve got? Do we speak out at times when it is difficult, or do we hide behind safe culturally accepted norms, never challenging the status quo that we see around us, allowing injustice to continue in the world?

Of course we need to live in an ethical way, to bring goodness rather than harm to others, to live lives that are marked by selflessness and generosity.

All of these things are right for our lives. But if we think that this is all that Jesus is telling us, we are missing the point.

Jesus is actually speaking to us here about life and death.

***

These four examples ­ being rich, being full, laughing and being spoken of favorably ­ paint a picture of a life focused on the self, focused on taking care of one’s mortal life first and foremost. In other words, not living for the Kingdom, but for the world, which passes away.

In other words, the short run vs. the long run.

To us God’s economy seems strange. It is counter-intuitive. In our worldly economy, the more we get the more we get. The fuller we pour our cup, the fuller our cup will be. But in God’s economy, if we pour our cup until it is completely full, we will have no room left for the gift of God’s grace that is to come. If we pray with clenching hands that want to hold onto and control everything, and to make sure that all things go our way, we will have no ability to receive new things into our tightly clenched hands. It is hard above all things to pray with open hands, but that is the only true prayer. We are vulnerable that way, and we know it—powerless, as Christ himself was when he walked the earth in human form. But vulnerability is true life. That is reality.

We cannot stop the coming of change in our lives, the natural course of things coming to an end, often before we would like. But we can open ourselves to the gifts that might await us in the change, or on the other side of it. And Jesus’ promise to us is that, like him, we will rise. God has made a promise, and we are offered a chance to orient our lives to that promise.

***

The world and this life are wonderful. But not fully wonderful. There is also pain, poverty, sickness, loss and death. But we are told of a greater life than our mere earthly life. One of which this life only gives us glimpses. Now we see it only dimly. Then we will be face to face.

It is a challenge of faith for us to believe our sun will rise again eternally. But it is a challenge offered up by Jesus, who has indeed gone before us on this path, and puts out his hand beckoning us to follow him.

The late Bill Coffin once put it like this: 

If we don’t know what is beyond the grave we do know who is beyond the grave, and Christ resurrected links the two worlds, telling us we really live only in one. If God’s love is immortal, then life is eternal, and death is a horizon, and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

 Amen.

 

© St. Edmund's Church