How much is enough?

Proper 21 Year C

Br. Christopher Paul Parker SSF

            How much is enough?  I often asked myself this question when I was thinking of giving up my career as a professor, selling my home, and joining the Society of St. Francis.  As a prosperous middle-class American, I had lots of stuff, more than I needed, and even more than I wanted.  I had plenty of money and could usually self-medicate depression or boredom with shopping pretty much whenever I felt like it.  I had clothes I rarely wore but kept in case I felt like wearing them someday, shoes I kept because I might want just that pair someday, even if I didn’t need it now.  I knew that all this stuff took up mental space and spiritual energy, but I kept it for the simple reason that if I gave it away, I wouldn’t have it any more.  When I felt the call to religious life, I thought, “Good.  Here’s my chance to simplify things once and for all.  No more stuff; no more clutter; just a holy simplicity.” As a friar, I’d know just how much was enough.  Where I made my mistake was in thinking that once I’d joined the Society, I’d live happily in a spiritual environment of chastity, obedience, and, following the example of the Little Poor Man of Assisi, poverty.  I assumed in a rather vague and unrealistic way that once I’d left behind my career ambitions, given away most of my belongings, and sold my property, this question would take care of itself.  It didn’t, of course.  Some of the most searching and uncomfortable debates we have in our community come from trying to figure out how to live our commitment to poverty faithfully but without romanticizing poverty or the life of the poor.

            When I ask myself how much is enough, I have to face head-on my fear of the future, a future in which I become the stranger, the widow, or the orphan (Ps. 146:4-9) dependent on the charity of others.  Widows and orphans had almost no power or status in Jesus’ day.  Widows, especially childless widows, lacked what today we’d call the ‘safety net’ of husband or children to support them.  There was no social security, no Medicare, no social services agency, to provide for such women.  They survived on charity and often served as little better than slaves in the houses of their relatives, if any relatives would take them in.  Orphans were a similar drag on the local economy.  Caring for orphans meant giving away the resources that should go to one’s own children and all to no purpose, since it was through your children that your name and family lived on after your death.  To care for an orphan provided little return on the investment.  Strangers occupied an even more precarious position in 1^st-century society, since they existed outside the structures of tribal and family relations that defined the individual as such.  To be a stranger wasn’t just to fear the possibility of exclusion; it was to know it first-hand.

I suspect that most of us harbor, as I know I do, some version of this fear.  So despite the fact that my present circumstances more than meet my present needs, my gut instinct when I hear the question “how much is enough?” is to say “give me more; more wealth, more security, more power, more assurance that I won’t slip through society’s cracks and become one of the poor, who, as we read in the prophet Amos last week, are bought for silver and the price of a pair of sandals (Amos 8:4-7).  When I fall into this way of thinking, I’m playing a zero-sum game where my own needs can only be met at the expense of others’ needs.  It’s the logic of getting while the getting is good, and to hell with those who, by definition, are the competition.  If they can’t provide for themselves, they’re lazy, or incompetent, or just plain unlucky, and that’s their problem.

            It’s this sort of thinking that Jesus exposes in today’s gospel (Luke 16:19-31), the parable of Lazarus and the rich man.  The rich man, feasting sumptuously and dressing in rare and expensive purple garments, watches complacently while the poor man, Lazarus, slowly starves to death at his gate.  When the rich man also dies – as the rich also always do, he ends up in Hades, tormented unbearably by thirst, but tormented even more unbearably by the sight of Lazarus reclining in the bosom of Abraham.  “Father Abraham,” he calls, “have mercy on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.”  But Abraham replies “during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here and you are in agony.”  The parable suggests a kind of symmetry between Lazarus’ suffering and that of the rich man, but the symmetry is deceptive.  Lazarus’ poverty wasn’t simply a neutral condition, nor was the rich man’s wealth.  All that the rich man possessed came, finally, from God, as all that we all possess comes finally from God.  But instead of sharing God’s good gifts with Lazarus, the rich man kept them as his own, feasting while Lazarus starved, and usurping to himself the bounty God intended for all.  And it’s here, I think, that we see most clearly through Jesus’ calm, dispassionate gaze the absurdity of human notions of abundance.  In our human ideas of economy, someone must always lose for another to gain.  To help Lazarus, to bind up his wounds and give him the scraps from his table, the rich man would have to be satisfied with just a little bit less, and that amount, however small, would be that much less of a cushion between the rich man and whatever losses or hardships he feared.  Rather than face the truth that everything belongs to God, every fiber, every grain, every morsel, every breath, the rich man fools himself into thinking that his wealth really is his.  Entrusted with a portion of God’s infinite abundance, the rich man refuses to pass any of that abundance on to others.  He forgets that he, like the rest of us, can only wear on pair of sandals at a time.

            The consequence of the rich man’s inaction is, of course, Lazarus’ suffering and death.  Lazarus doesn’t just “die”; he is allowed to die by some one who has the means, and according to the Law of Moses, should also have the motive, to save him.  That’s why his death isn’t a neutral occurrence, and also why the rich man’s agony in Hades isn’t just bad luck finally catching up with him.  The rich man knows better, as we all know better whenever we allow such suffering to flourish as the result of our own greed, or inaction, or fear.  It’s the same old zero-sum game in which we win because someone else loses, or gets shut outside the gate, or gets denied education, or medical care, or human dignity, because he or she is the stranger on the other side of the wall, although today I suppose it’s more accurate to say “on the other side of the fence.”  In human terms, that person’s gain is my loss.

            But God’s economy is different.  God gives to us out of an infinite supply, the inexhaustible fund of God’s creative love.  As Franciscans, we try to live together as a real family, loving each other not in spite of our weaknesses and wounds, but because of them.  It’s in these wounds that we become real human beings to each other, and it’s in our wounds and failures that the Holy Spirit enters into our hearts.  Make no mistake: we hurt and disappoint each other, sometimes without even knowing we’re doing so, but God always gives us the grace to start over if we so choose.  And because we believe that our life together here anticipates our common life in eternity, we try very deliberately to welcome the stranger into our home.  We hope in simple and tangible ways to mirror for each other, and for those who come to this place, the love that first called Francis to God and then called brothers to Francis.  We try to embody God’s abundance in our welcome, not requiring payment or service, and not seeing ourselves as diminished by what we give to others.  We’re not perfect, and there are times when we, or least I, fail to give the kind of welcome I want to give, but I can always draw on God’s spectacularly prodigal grace to try again.  I do this because I know that the two columns supporting the saints, the martyrs, the prophets, the apostles, supporting the Law of Moses, supporting Zion and Mount Samaria, supporting Francis and the love he bore his brothers, and supporting me in my weakness, are the two great commandments: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and you shall love your neighbor as yourself (Matt. 22).  Today’s collect, the prayer we share with all the Church, reminds us that God declares God’s divine power “chiefly in showing mercy and pity” and that the “heavenly treasure” in which we hope to partake is the love that annihilates lack, and poverty, and suffering.  It’s the love of Christ, given to us in a measure so packed down and overflowing that no matter how much we lavish and waste on each other, we can never diminish the supply by even one grain.

            So, once again, how much is enough?  Without God, the answer is a stark “nothing.”  And if we accept this answer we’ll be locked forever in that zero-sum game which has to have losers to have winners.  But if we open our eyes to God’s love and generosity, the answer becomes, “there has always, from before your birth, from before Moses, from before all of creation, already been enough and infinitely more than enough.”  My brothers and sisters, my prayer for you today is that you will share with us, with me, and with each other some of God’s limitless bounty.  I pray this in + the Holy Name of God, who is One eternal and undivided Trinity.  Amen.

In the midst of life we are in death

I’m grieving for Jim Kelsey, bishop of northern Michigan, who died suddenly this afternoon, Sunday, June 3rd.  I’d only known Jim for about two weeks, first during a trip to his diocese to consider mission opportunities, and then at our joint chapter with our sisters, whose protector he was.  Jim was warm, kind, generous; the sort of person who’s immediately loving and who inspires love in return.  He was also the least “episcopal” bishop I’ve ever met.  He cherished a radical notion of common ministry and refused the adulation bishops tend to attract.  This meant that when he did speak with authority, people listened with unusual attention and respect.  I pray that his successor will have some measure of his grace and charity.  Many will miss him.

 May he rest in peace and rise in glory! 

The Life of A Postulant

My name is Steven and I am one of two postulants in our house of formation. A postulant is a person in their first six months (give or take) of being in the Society of St. Francis. I thought I would share some reflections on my experiences as a “newbee” here.

I live with nine other guys in a house that is composed of three Victorian flats one on top of the other. We are located on Dolores Street in the Mission District of SF. We are a diverse group in terms of age and backgrounds. The oldest is 79 and the youngest is in his early 30s. We have a retired pediatric geneticist, a former professor of History from de Paul Univ. in Chicago, a biblical scholar from Japan, a Jungian analyst and others. We each have our own rooms but share bathrooms.

Our schedule:

Mon. to Thursday: morning prayer and community meeting @ 7am, evening prayer, mass and dinner beginning @ 6pm

Friday: morning prayer @ 7 am and the rest of the day until Sat. evening- time to ourselves

Saturday: evening prayer, mass and dinner beginning @ 6 and includes community guests (whoever shows is welcome).

Wednesday night is soup dinner and “Feelings” group where we check in with each other at a deeper level than morning meeting. Postulants (those of us in our 1st 3 months) and novices (those in month 4 to 3rd year) have classes on Tuesday mornings, Thursday afternoons and Friday mornings. These consist of discussions on Franciscan spirituality, Church traditions, the vows, prayer, social ministry, and more. The postulants also have an extra class once a week on St. Francis and the foundations of Franciscanism with Br. Donald Luke, our senior novice. Each brother has their own set of other activities such as classes, work, volunteer activities, etc. We share cleaning and cooking duties. We are also each supposed to become involved in an Episcopal Church in the City.

My fellow postulant, Masao and I work two days a week in feeding programs for the homeless. We will begin an intensive 10 week volunteer chaplaincy training program at the beginning of June. I am also looking at volunteering with San Francisco Unified to work with limited English learners. Oh yeah, we are expected to make time for individual prayer and meditation.

Here’s something I wrote to friends and family at the very beginning of my postulancy: “I have only been here 16 days but it feels a lot longer. It’s not because it is so painful. It is a wonderful experience, but sooo much is new and life altering that the days seem long. If I walk in the Light, Life and Love that brought me here and remember to take one minute at a time and remember that perfectionism kills spirituality, I think I have a very good chance of making this a life commitment.”

We just ended our Lenten journey with Holy Week and Easter. This is a time of reflection on the spiritual meaning of life and of embracing new life. I certainly feel I am embracing new life and I feel much more grounded than I did in those first few days. Cooking is definitely not my interest or forte but I have had to cook several times (even volunteered once!) and the brothers are still alive. I led prayer for a whole week and found myself embracing the sometimes frustrating complexity of how we do communal prayer. I have reorganized several closets and prayer materials and have made numerous suggestions (surely not a surprise to those who know me!) about how to better systemetize, categorize and order almost everything in the house. I am learning much about community living by reminding myself that I am not the only one who has definite ideas about how things should run. I have also been able to use my graphics/computer skills to produce materials for the community. I am also now an unofficial bread baker . Br. Jacob is the real bread baker (in my mind) as he produces superb breads from scratch! But I just love my Oster bread machine and I have become quite creative with ingredients. Ever try adding “Chinese Five Spices” into your baked goods?

On a more serious note, I am learning and growing a great deal each day. This is an amazing experience for this 51 year old. I realize more and more each day how much of life there is still in me and I am grateful for this opportunity to follow a long cherished dream.

We were assigned to visit as many Episcopal parishes as we could in the City in order to choose one to become active in. I thought I would join a large progressive parish in Diamond Heights but visited a struggling predominately African American parish (St. Cyprian's) a few weeks ago and decided that I would make that my home base for Sunday Mass and parochial involvement. We were only eight plus the two clerics for Holy Thursday and it was a moving experience. The stripping of the altar and church which is usually a ceremonial representation of Christ’s embracing of his death ended up with me on a ladder with a pair of pliers removing the staples that had held up the palm branches from palm Sunday. Good Friday was marked with a solemn, simple service with our sisters in our own chapel in the house followed by quiet time for prayer and reflection. Tonight will be attendance at our individual parishes for Easter Vigil. Tomorrow morning we celebrate sunrise service at 5:45 am with our sisters followed by breakfast and then off to our individual parishes for regular Easter Sunday services. We have a woman being baptized on Sunday morning and I am looking forward to being part of that. We balance community life with active involvement in the wider community in ministries and parish involvement of our own choosing.

www.saintcyprianssf.org

I, unlike most of my brothers, am a native to the Bay Area and it has been a challenge to maintain connection to friends and family who live so close and want to be a part of this new experience and being sure to make clear that my first priorities lie with this community. Three of the brothers will be moving to New York in the Summer and I will be taking on some of their duties. One of them is the shopping at Costco. Those who know me can tell you that this is my favorite place to spend time! (He says very sarcastically!). But it is becoming clearer day by day that I do what I am asked “cheerfully” as it says in our Principles. (These are a set of 31 guiding standards by which we lead our lives individually and communally as Franciscans.) I did manage to smile through most of my first Costco adventure. Br. Donald Luke is a very patient teacher. We ended up with two huge shopping carts at a total cost of $690. That’s food for ten of us for a month. I will also soon be put on the car insurance so I can do the shuttle work that sometimes is necessary in a community like ours.

Our car is something to behold. It is a puce green 1990(?) Nissan Sentra that is in dire need of a complete makeover. We rent a parking space and getting in and out of it is a lesson in patience and driving expertise. I had heard about the nightmares of getting in and out and the amount of money spent on replacing side mirrors and thought it would be a piece of cake for someone like me with 35 years driving experience. I got the car out fine but when I returned it to it’s narrow berth, I left long white streaks down the side of the car where I scraped the cement pillar. As you can see, I am learning a lot about humility!

On a more serious note, I am learning and growing a great deal each day. This is an amazing experience for this 51 year old. I realize more and more each day how much of life there is still in me and I am grateful for this opportunity to follow a long cherished dream.

I will be received as a novice on May 21st at our chapter ( a yearly meeting where all the brothers and sisters come together for retreat, business and fun for a week). Being received is also called "Clothing" as my fellow postulant, Masao, and I will receive the habit and change our names as symbols of taking on a new life in the Society of St. Francis. I have chosen the name Vincent Damian. I would just be Vincent but we are not allowed to have the same name as anyone else in the order and there is a Vincent in England. Vincent is for St. Vincent de Paul, my patron since I was a child and Damian for the cross of San Damiano in Assisi where St. Francis had his conversion experience. Damian is also for Damien of Molokai who became a leper working with the lepers of Hawaii. The name seems appropriate to the call I feel to work with the marginalized of our world and my own sense of being the wonded healer. Some of you have asked if you could be present for this special event but only my parents and my spiritual director are allowed to attend. I will be thinking of you and ask your prayers as I seek to fulfill this daunting call.

Enough for now. Sorry for the generic nature of this note, but I did want to let you know what’s up with me. I wish each one of you a springtime of hope, peace and joy; Love,Peace and all goodness.

“There is no way to peace. Peace is the way.”– A.J. Muste.

You’re doing what?!?

 (The comments below came out of an e-mail exchange with an old friend who’s been corresponding with me since I first thought that I might have a vocation to the religious life.  She was shocked to think that I’d give up my tenured professorship for a less certain life as a Franciscan brother and wanted to know some of the considerations behind my decision.  Here’s where I try to explain what, for me, constitutes real faith and how my own theology works.)

     There was a fierce debate during the first century between more traditional Jewish Christians and Christians who wanted to reach out to other peoples, summarized by two brilliant and brief tracts, Paul’s letter to the Galatians, and the epistle of James. James, Jesus’ brother, insisted that the faithful must “be doers of the word, and not merely hearers,” while Paul, dedicated missionary to the hellenized world, argued that faith, and not works, led to salvation. I particularly like Galatians, since it’s Paul’s equivalent of what today would be a flaming email.  For me, faith and works are part of the Moebius strip of Christian spirituality: show me one and I’ll show you the other — that’s my beef with so many of the Evangelical churches. Their emphasis on personal salvation at the expense of social outreach and justice smacks strongly of blind egocentrism and denies the necessary communal work that makes us into the Body of Christ. Since the Episcopal Church is usually seen as highly cerebral (although we do have churches that practice speaking in “tongues” which I find disturbing and looney and profoundly unscriptural), you’d think that we’d have a well-articulated and normative theology, but we don’t. Our theology doesn’t emerge in catechisms, like the Roman Catholics. Instead, you’ll find it in the liturgy, particularly the Eucharistic liturgy. That, I think, is because one of the strengths of our Anglican heritage is the realization that any statement about God, even those that are most positive — God is loving, merciful, creative, true, good, etc. — profoundly misrepresent the reality of the divine. God isn’t “loving, true, or good”; God is absolute Love, absolute Truth, absolute Good. Thomas Aquinas is reputed at the end of his life to have said of his great Summa, “it’s all straw,” which was a way of realizing that theology, while necessarily and even sometimes helpful, only takes us so far down the road to God. The four Cappadocians, Basil the Great, Gregory of Nazianus, Basil’s brother, Gregory of Nyssa, and Basil’s and Gregory of Nyssa’s sister, Macrina (who basically nagged her brothers into sainthood), all knew that any statement about God must be taken as partial and provisional. The Eastern churches have produced more mystic saints than the Western because the mystic seeks union with God without pretending to know God or to speak for the One.

     The paradox, of course, is that we are all, all of our lives, theologians, and to talk about God with sincerity of mind and heart is to expose the you that will live for eternity to the gaze of the you that’s caught in time. It was much harder for me to come out of the closet as a Christian than it was to come out as a gay man, particularly in an academic environment — until, that is, I clued into the fact that Marxism, post-structuralism, psychoanalysis, feminism, deconstruction, etc.etc.etc. are all theologies too, just ones that seldom acknowledge their own limits.  Walk the halls of any elite university or think tank and you’ll find pulpit-pounders as devoted as any sidewalk preacher.

Any theology that claims to have the definitive word on God substitutes human wisdom for God’s, and anyone with the hunger for God will eventually realize the rightness of Paul’s observation in 1Corinthians that ‘the foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of mankind and the weakness of God is stronger than the strength of mankind.’ I’m beginning to know the limits of my own wisdom; now I want the profound depths of God’s foolishness.

    

in golden gate park

sparkography on flickr

This afternoon, after church, I took a walk through golden gate park. All weekend we were anticipating huge rain, but the day sparkled – sunshine all around, blue skies, the whole nine yards and then some. I took out my camera and was taking pictures as I walked down the road which is closed on Sundays for bicyclists, rollerbladers, runners and sauntering Franciscans.

I was walking further into the park and a group of guys were walking out, towards the Haight area. One of the guys said to his friends, “I’ll be right back” and literally ran to me. This is the second time in a week where someone actually ran to me. He said, “I don’t know if you can help me, but I think I’m going to hell.” I knew God was present.

I told him my name, asked him his, put my hand on his shoulder and said we should have a seat. He was not much younger than me. I noticed he had some missing fingers.

He told me he hears voices and his friends didn’t know it, but he had this week tried to kill himself. He knows he’s a schizophrenic and he thinks it’s the devil controlling his thoughts. He chopped off his own fingers. He has a history of physically causing himself harm. He then asked if I thought he was going to hell.

I told him, no, I really don’t think so and truly, I don’t. He asked why not. I told him to look at his life and the harm he caused himself and the suffering he’s enduring with mental illness and that itself is hell. We don’t need it in the afterlife when the present is almost too much to bear.

God wants him to have a break from all this, not to suffer more. Even his calling out to me was God working in him. God, despite this man’s lack of understanding, has purpose for him. I told him, God would have called him back to him sooner his attempt at suicide had become “successful.” I told him, that his crying out with me and alone is God’s compassion for him.

He was uncertain and I could see his paranoia take hold of his impulse to seek help – but he asked was I sure, was I just saying this to comfort him, did I really believe what I was saying. The truth is I do.

Franciscan spirituality and for that matter all Christian sprituality is incarnational. The implication of Christ’s coming has been interpreted to focus on sin. Francis shows that Jesus came because God’s love could not just stay heavenward but had to be outpoured, in exuberant generosity, came for all of us and is with us even in times of darkness. Even in our doubt and questioning and even in our lack of faith, God is with us.

I asked him to pray, especially when he begins to notice the voices creeping in. To ask for intercession, knowing he is powerless to the voices. I also suggested that he seek medical care as mental illness is beyond my reach and actually his for true help. Finally i told him, I would pray for him and I do and I will.

Lenten Sermon: The Prodigal Son

We are at midpoint in our Lenten journey – not exactly in the throws of Holy Week, nor the beginning where our dedication and enthusiasm might have been stronger. We are in a liminal place. Liminality is where God seems to thrive within us. It’s a period of transition, of being in the middle, where because of self-reflection and confession, one’s identity dissolves a bit, and when we are open to something new. So at this point, we need a story, which reflects this, which mirrors our Lenten experience and gives us hope. The prodigal son is such a story.

By giving us a story of a family, of fathers and sons, we are given something that inherently rings true, a story of our humanity. Jesus, in wisdom, knows our struggles and expectations within our own families, and gives us a reversal of our expectation: He shares with us the very nature of God.

I wish to focus at first on the place where my heart really goes out to the younger son. And it is a place of desperation. The money is squandered, there is famine; his employers won’t even let him eat the slop the pigs eat. Our hero is starving and he is alone. Jesus tells this story, as he often did, to the poor and the sinners. These are people who know desperation. He preaches to them because he loves vulnerability. When we are in that vulnerable place, we are open to connection to the presence of God. When we reach a place of vulnerability we realize we cannot go at it alone. We no longer have illusions of pride or own will. It is the beginning of change.

The younger son has to make a choice and he chooses to go home. He apologizes to his father for his actions and asks to work with the slaves just so he can eat. In his view this is the best situation available – the future that makes most sense. But the father in this case, and God always, does not limit the expectation to what is minimally required. God’s love, God’s goodness is always more gracious, more giving than we can hope or imagine for ourselves.

But we have to initiate that relationship. God is ever inviting relationship with him, but if we do not step forward, and say yes, even in the smallest of ways, he will not force his presence upon us. And by going home the son invites God’s greatest give to us: intimacy and grace.

Our experience tells us that love is conditional, there are strings attached. If you do this, I will leave. I will love you as much as possible but even I have limits. This is not personal. It is simply our humanity. Jesus tells us that only God’s love is truly unconditional.

By the father’s gifts of the sandals, the ring, and the feast, Jesus shows us the over abundance of grace, even when we least deserve it. But he is so happy to be with us that he cannot contain himself. It is God’s nature to give and keep on giving. God’s love was so great; he could not help but bring Jesus into the world. He is the unending overflowing cup.

The other son, of course, is bitter about the whole thing. He says he’s never received a feast, not even a young goat for him but “this son of yours who devoured your property with prostitutes, you give him the fatted calf.” But the father responds that because he has come back, “this brother of yours,” was dead and has come back to life. He stresses the relationship. It is when we forget that we all incarnated because of God’s love and come from one source, that we can dishonor each other. God stresses that he is our brother, our son, we are in relationship with this person. No one is other.

It is a paradox that in discovering our relational interdependence we can as Paul says, “regard no on from a human point of view . . . If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away . . . everything becomes new” and we can “in him, become the righteousness of God.”

It is then that we can then in honesty pray as Francis did by saying “My God and my All!”

Amen

my first sermon

Mark 1:1-8
Second Sunday of Advent

The beginning of the good news* of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, “See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, I who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight” ’, John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. He proclaimed, ‘The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit. NRSV

Australian E-Journal of Theology

There is a difficulty in reading the beginning of Mark’s gospel freshly because we already know too much. We know of Mary, of Jesus’ birth, of his teaching in the temple but Mark does not start with this information. When Mark says the beginning and then goes on to tell of John’s baptism of repentance, he says that this is our beginning – the place where we begin the encounter with Christ.

John prepares the way. When we open ourselves and let known what is broken or hurt or damaged inside of us, when we are honest by saying how we have hurt someone or ourselves, describing the ways that we have been separated from one another either by self-deception or anger or shame or anything else, we repent. We enter the Jordan recognizing our need for wholeness.

It says in the scripture that the people of the countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going to John. Again, this says all of the people of Jerusalem. The people’s needs were not being met in their synagogues, their relationships, and their work. Our sins – and here I use Martin Buber’s interpretation: the idea that sin is anything which separates us from each other, ourselves and our God – can be a pathway to being open to each other and to Christ.

But it is our holding it inside which causes us separation. In the next section of this text, God says to Jesus, “you are my son, my beloved and with you, I am well pleased.” When we allow ourselves to confess the ways that keep us separate, we are then prepared to hear that we are God’s beloveds, and with us he is well pleased. And it is true for all.

If we continue to hold on, we will either dismiss this message or cannot hear it. It is not that God needs this from us. But rather it is we who need it for ourselves. If we are attaching ourselves or clinging to our sense of inferiority, or wrongness, or our superiority; if we cling to the ego we are not open to the message of God. And so we confess; we can then feel our being forgiven and loved, as we hide nothing from Him.

By doing this, not only with God, but with each other, we are free to be more loved and loving in our relationships, in our community life, and in our ministries.

The other part of this text, which I’d like to accent, is John’s message for Franciscans and for all Christians. John has often been characterized as a little crazy – this wild man who despite himself has an in with God. What I see is a man who has instead risked everything to develop a true simplicity to keep watch for Jesus’ arrival. In Jerusalem, there was no one who found the truth of simplicity and humility. In this way, he could proclaim what needs to happen for openness to God. In our giving everything up for God, we provide something, which we may not fully understand, that gives people access, an opening to relationship with God the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit. Let us accept our responsibility and like, John, keep watch. We are needed. God has a role for us whether or not all the people of a city recognize it. We are pathways to God.

Amen