“What must we do to perform the works of God?” It’s the question that the crowd asks Jesus, and the question that we still ask ourselves today. Jesus gives them a simple answer: believe. But in believing, we become ever more like Christ.

Vicar Jessica Christy
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost, year B
Texts: 2 Samuel 11:26-12:13a; Psalm 51:1-12; Ephesians 4:1-16; John 6:16-35

 

“What must we do to perform the works of God?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? At least, it is for me. I’ve been asking myself that for months: what does God want me to do, and how do I know? I’m sure I’m not the only one who wonders that. It’s one of the reasons that we gather together every week: to listen for what God is asking of us now. Yes, we gather to praise and to pray, to celebrate the sacraments, and to remind ourselves of the promises of God’s grace – but there’s no question about those things. There’s no question about God’s freely given love for us, and there’s no question that it is good for us to rejoice in that gift through our worship.

The question is what the crowd asks Jesus on the other side of the sea: “What must we do to perform the works of God?” What does God want from us? How are we supposed to live in this hurting world? What does it look like for us to go in peace and serve the LORD?

We search for those answers because we want to serve, to live well with each other, to carry God’s love out into the world. I have seen that time and time again here. This is a place that is so eager to respond to God’s grace – not only within these walls, but throughout our lives. We dearly want to act justly and walk humbly with our God.

But today’s scripture reminds us of just how difficult that is. Here, we see King David at his lowest. He was supposed to be the chosen one, God’s beloved – but now, not only has he committed a terrible series of sins, but he tops them off with self-righteous hypocrisy. He has gone completely astray from what God asked of him. If someone who called by God and guided by prophets could commit such crimes, then what does that mean for the rest of us? And then there’s the crowd questioning Jesus in the Gospel. They are so eager to follow him that they literally just chased him across a lake – but Jesus tells them that they’re seeking him for the wrong reasons. They try to understand, but it’s like Jesus and the crowd are talking past each other, and they only become more confused. And if they can’t hear what he’s saying when they’re standing at his side, then what hope do we have of doing any better? Is our best option to declare with the Psalmist that we’ve been sinners from our mothers’ wombs, and just leave it at that?

What must we do to perform the works of God? Is such a thing even possible?

Jesus gives the crowd a response to the question, although it’s a strange one. “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” It seems like such a non-answer. They want to know what God requires of them, and he says: just believe. If we wanted, we could leave it there. We could say that our lives are so tainted by sin, our actions so doomed to fail, that God has despaired of our ability to do good in the world, and so asks for nothing more than our belief. Plenty of Christians have claimed that. But if we stopped there, we’d be missing the richness of what the Bible means when it talks about belief.

In the modern world, we think of belief as something that happens in our heads – we believe that something is true or false. But in scripture, that’s only part of the picture. Belief is not just agreeing to some abstract claim. It is not signing off on a series of theological statements and then going about our lives. Believing in Christ is about trusting that his way is the true way. It’s about committing our lives to the way of the Cross. Belief doesn’t demand that we always get things right. We’re sinful human beings; that’s not going to change. But it is about letting ourselves be transformed. Belief isn’t a thing apart from us. It is what we do. It is who we are. Believing is about becoming.

And we see that nowhere more clearly than in the letter to the church in Ephesus. Ephesians boldly proclaims God’s grace, but it also challenges us to be worthy of our calling as God’s children. In today’s reading, Paul begs us – begs us! – to live together in humility and gentleness, with patience, holding each other in love. At a time when the church was growing and struggling with internal divisions, he cried out no, this is not who we are called to be. We are not called to be captives to sin. We are called to be Christ. That might sound extreme, but that’s what the letter says: that we “must grow up in every way into Christ.” The purpose of our life together is nothing less than to shape us into Christ’s image. In faith, we unveil that spark of God that rests in each of our souls. Now, we get scared sometimes when we hear of the Gospel transforming us, because it sounds like a requirement – but it’s really a promise. Paul isn’t talking about salvation here. He is not saying that we need to be Christ-like to earn God’s love. He’s talking about how God’s gift of grace has the power to change us, and through us, to change everything. Our faith in Christ brings us closer to Christ and makes us more like Christ in a world that so desperately needs us to be Christ’s presence.

When Jesus teaches about that presence, he teaches about bread. He calls himself the bread of life, and next week, he will tell the baffled crowd that they need to eat him if he is to bring them life. He will say that those who eat this bread of life abide in him and he in them. This sounds absolutely crazy to his listeners – but it’s how food works. It nourishes us because it becomes part of our bodies. We take it into our muscles and bones, use it to power all the processes that give us life. And that’s how our faith in Christ works as well.   When we believe in Jesus, Jesus becomes a part of us. We take Christ into ourselves in the sacraments. We take Christ into ourselves in worship and the word. We take Christ into ourselves in prayer and confession, in fellowship and faithful service. And the more we eat of this bread, the more we find Christ’s life in us, “for the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” This nourishes us. This changes us. This becomes us. It has been a joy to eat this bread with you, and to let it transform me these past twelve months. I know that I am forever changed because of how God is at work in this place – just as I know that you are being changed as well.

So what must we do to perform the works of God? Believe, Jesus says – and in believing, become. Eat the bread of life, and know that Christ is abiding in you. Eat the bread of life, and bring that life to the world.   Your calling is to be Christ. Whoever you are, whatever you are, wherever you are, God is calling forth Christ in you. God who is above all and through all and in all is at work within you to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine. Believe this, and become it. It is already here. It is already true. Christ is taking shape in you, and the world cannot wait to see what Christ will do.

Amen.

There is no such thing as a secret gospel, because the good news dies when we keep it to ourselves. Mary Magdalene has given us the good news of Christ’s resurrection; how will we add to her story?

Vicar Jessica Christy
The Feast of St. Mary Magdalene
Text: John 20:1-2, 11-18

For a brief moment, Mary Magdalene was the entirety of the church. She alone had met the resurrected Jesus. She alone knew that the jaws of hells had been broken open, and death had been defeated forever. For that moment, she was special, irreplaceable. All of God’s plans for the human race were contained in her.

The second that she announced her good news, she lost that uniqueness. She gave the gospel to others so that they could share it, and share it they did. From her first proclamation, the church grew and spread until God’s word took root in every nation on Earth. Every sermon that has ever been preached begins with Mary saying, “He is risen.” But the church has not always rewarded Mary for her willingness to share the good news. Today, we honor her as an apostle, a financial supporter of Jesus’ ministry, and a witness of the resurrection, but for centuries, we misread the Bible and called her a sinner and a prostitute. We pushed her to the margins of Jesus’ circle, instead of recognizing her place near the center. For too long, we took her message while dishonoring the messenger.

And so there’s a part of me that wants to linger with Mary in this moment when she, and only she, carried the gospel. I want to stay here, just outside the tomb, and bear witness to her shining faith and love. I want to hold tight to this time when all of history was waiting for her words – before the church took her words and left her behind. Here in the garden, she is safe from suspicion, safe from slander.

But the first thing that Jesus tells her is, “Do not hold on to me.” He says: don’t cling to me, because you can’t stay here. I have chosen to show myself to you, but you can’t keep me to yourself. Your job is to go out and tell everyone what you have seen. She will always have this moment with Jesus in the garden, but it cannot last. She needs to go out and ready the other disciples for Jesus’ return – because the gospel dies when we keep it to ourselves. It is like a plant: while it lives, it must grow. So of course she doesn’t consider keeping the good news to herself. Of course she doesn’t want to be the sole bearer of the knowledge that death is not the end. She doesn’t worry about credit or attribution or her place among the apostles – all that matters is that Christ has conquered the grave. Her joy carries her back to the upper room where she can proclaim, “He is risen!,” This news cannot be contained, no matter what the cost of sharing it might be.

There were some ancient Christians who recognized Jesus’ closeness to Mary and wrote Gnostic texts imagining that he gave her special, secret teachings. They called her a prophet and a mystic who knew things that the other disciples did not. And yes, it is exciting to think that some people in the early church lifted up the insight of a woman above the knowledge of the Twelve – but the idea of a secret gospel is missing the point. Nothing about God is secret or exclusive. There are no hidden revelations, no teachings reserved for the chosen few. A private gospel is a dead gospel. Everything that God has done for us is ours to share. We do not receive the gospel to hold on to it but to let it flow out from us in our relationships and our words and our work. Each and every one of us are how God’s kingdom grows. We just need to be willing to witness to God’s love, and not try to keep that love to ourselves.

So what is the thing that God has shown you that you can share? What is the good news that is waiting to break out of you and spread through the world? Where have you seen God in your life, and how can you invite others to see the light and love that you are seeing? What gospel needs to be brought to life through you?

As I prepare to leave this place in two short weeks, I have been thinking about where I have met God in this place, and how I will carry that good news with me. Because I promise, I will take your witness with me as I move on. So I want to tell you a few of things that I want to go out and proclaim about how God is at work here.

I have seen God in your deep and joyful faith in the resurrection. Funerals in this place are a celebration of God’s saving love like nothing I have ever seen before. When a loved one dies, we gather together to mourn, yes, but far more than that, we gather to remind ourselves of God’s unshakeable faithfulness, and to look forward to that time when we ourselves are united with God’s everlasting glory. And this is a witness that we most certainly do not keep to ourselves. We consider it a privilege to host the funerals of non-members, and our people show up both in the chancel and in the pews – even if the deceased is a total stranger – so that we can bear witness to God’s salvation and to hold those who mourn in love. That is how much we care about the resurrection, and it has been a blessing for me to experience that confidence.

I have seen God in your commitment to our environment. Although I was not here for the conversations at the beginning of the building renovation, I know that you faced a difficult decision around what sacrifices we should make to care for our planet. But sacrifice you did, and now this building is cooled by the soil and the sun, instead of by harmful fossil fuels. If we are going to find a way to keep living on this planet, we’re going to need to make many more such sacrifices. People are going to need to come together and make hard, costly decisions for the sake of our future. But here, you have shown that such action is possible. And more than that, you acted not out of fear but out of faith. No matter how scary our climate situation might seem, your actions proclaim that God is still walking with us, and God will show us the way forward. That is a witness that the world needs to hear.

And I have seen God in the love you have for each other. You have been nothing but warm and wonderful to me as a sojourner in your midst, and I know that you strive to show that same grace to one another. When my family visited on Thanksgiving, my sister was struck by how many people hung around the nave after worship, simply enjoying one another’s company. Afterwards, she told me: “I liked how people cared about each other. That’s what a church should be.” Jesus says: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” She saw that here, and so have I – time and time again. Your life together, the ways you love and serve each other, testifies to how the love of Christ has the power to heal the world.

I will go out and tell of these things, and many more besides. The good news of how God is bringing life to this place cannot be contained. That’s how we honor Mary’s witness – not by simply watching and praising her, but by joining her in her work. She has given us the gospel: Christ is risen! That Gospel is living and growing in us now, taking shape in each of our hearts, yearning to be shared with the world. So what good news will we add to the story?

Elizabeth and Zechariah receive amazing promises about what their son will do for the world, but they probably will not live to see those promises come to fruition. They stand with us on the long road to salvation, playing their part in God’s unfolding story.

 Vicar Jessica Christy
The Feast of St. John the Baptist
Text: Luke 1:57-80

“Prepare the way of the Lord!” That was John’s cry in the desert: prepare! As he taught and baptized his people, he knew that his mission was never an end in itself. Instead, he was merely getting ready, laying the groundwork for someone even greater. Tragically, he was killed before he could fully see what he had been preparing the world for. He never got to witness the wonder of Jesus’ death and resurrection. But even though he couldn’t know exactly how God’s promises were going to be fulfilled, he knew that their fulfillment was at hand, and he lived by that faith. That bold witness is what we honor today.

But funny enough, today’s Gospel isn’t really about John. The Baptist is a baby. Instead, we read about his parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah – and they are even one step farther removed from seeing God’s promises fulfilled. Their job is to prepare the way for the preparer, and they understand that well. They see an unbroken chain between their lives and the coming Christ. They know themselves to be in the midst of God’s unfolding story – not the beginning, and not the end, but along the way on the road towards salvation.

On one hand, this is a joyful place for them to be. They had given up on having children, and now, they not only have a son, but a chosen son who will usher in the Messiah. They are living in a time when ancient prophecies are being fulfilled, when God is showing up in a new and exciting way. They know their Scripture, so they know what God is planning for the world. They know that they are standing on the brink of a new era of mercy and salvation, life and peace. God’s light is dawning after a long and painful night. They clearly see where this story is headed, and it is good. Their role in God’s plans is good.

But on the other hand, their role is also bittersweet. Their story is one of amazement, but also of loss and longing. They are already very old, Luke says, when John is born – so old that it is a miracle that they are having a child at all. So how much of their son’s life will they be present for before they die? Luke doesn’t tell us. Will they get to be proud of his preaching, and of the great crowds that he inspires? Will they ever shake their heads at their strange child’s diet and choice of clothing? Will they get to see their nephew, Jesus, teaching and healing and transforming the world, and know in their hearts that this is what they had been waiting for? Or, more likely, are they preparing the way for promises that they will never live to see fulfilled? When they bring this child into the world, they are embarking on a journey, knowing full well that they probably won’t make it to the destination.

And that’s where we are. We stand with Elizabeth and Zechariah on the long road. We are living in the middle of a sacred story that we will probably not see brought to completion, not in our lifetimes. In faith, we proclaim that the story of this earth will end in joy, when all things are reconciled with God. With Zechariah, we announce that God is coming to forgive sins, to scatter darkness and death, and to bring long-awaited peace. We hold fast to that truth, because in the end, God’s victory is the only truth that matters. But the day-to-day reality of how we live that promise, that’s a harder task. We are in the middle of a long human journey, far from the beginning of the story, but with no clear happy ending in sight. All we can do is take the world that we have been given and do our part to bring it just a bit closer to the reign of God. We love each other, we strive for justice and peace, and we try to leave the world a little less broken than we found it. And then we pass the torch on to the next generation and hope they can build on what we’ve done.

This is hard work, because the world around us says that our shared story is going to end poorly. The news screams it out every day. The church, we are told, is declining, our country is in turmoil, our planet is getting hotter. The world is filled with powerful cruelty, powerful evil, and especially after this painful week, it doesn’t look like that evil will be going anywhere soon. We would have good reason to be overcome with despair. We would have good reason to suspect that we have spent centuries preparing the way for promises that will never be brought to fruition. Even though we say the dawn is coming, it’s easy to feel like the night is going to last forever, like we’re on a journey that’s twisting and turning but ultimately going nowhere. The forces of despair or strong, and the only way to fight back against them is with stories of God’s unquenchable, unconquerable love for the world.

The stories that we tell matter. They matter because we can’t anticipate God’s reign if we don’t believe that God is really coming. Are shaping ourselves with God’s stories of love and mercy and hope, or are we giving in to the world’s stories of futility? Whose truths are we choosing to live by? To see the difference this makes, we need only look to Zechariah. Zechariah is in the middle of the mess, just like us, but he speaks words of hope, not of sadness or regrets, because he is confident in God’s story. He looks back at the long, hard history of his people, and he would have every right to see it as a story of disappointment after disappointment and tragedy after tragedy. But instead he clings to the history of God’s loving promises, from Abraham, through David and the prophets, to his own day – and there he finds the assurance that God’s work isn’t done. He knows that the Holy Spirit is at work in the world, and that the Spirit has given him a part to play to pave the way for Christ.

If we believe that the light of Christ is dawning on all things, then we too have a part to play. We are called to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. The road is long and uncertain, and may at times feel futile. But we can go out with good courage, because on the other side of that uncertainty is God’s sure victory. God’s morning is coming. Blessed are we who are granted a chance to see that, no matter what shadows the world may throw at us. Blessed are we who prepare to greet the dawn. Because when we stand vigil, waiting and preparing and hoping for Christ’s light, then Christ’s light begins to rise in us, and then we know that our preparations are not in vain.

Amen.

 

We might say we love people in theory, but loving them in practice is much harder. It’s what Peter experienced when the Holy Spirit sent him to Cornelius, and what we experience whenever God challenges us to love someone outside our comfort zone.

Vicar Jessica Christy
The Second Sunday of Easter, year B
Texts: Acts 10:44-48, John 15:9-17

Where are the limits of your love? How far are you willing to go, and how much are you willing to lay down before you draw the line? Who are those people who you pray that God loves, because you don’t think that you can?

Today we see the early Church wrestling with the limits of its love. Our reading from Acts is the culmination of a story in which Peter visits the home of a faithful centurion named Cornelius. But the apostle doesn’t go there of his own volition; both he and Cornelius’ household are guided by the Holy Spirit. Peter is staying in a nearby city when he has a strange vision of a giant sheet descending from heaven, filled with all manner of unclean animals – four legged creatures and reptiles and birds. And he hears a voice saying, “Get up, Peter. Kill and eat.” Now, because Peter is Peter, he fights back – not once, but three times. He objects that he has never eaten anything impure, and he has no desire to start now. To give Peter his due, the problem isn’t just that he thinks that eating a lizard sounds gross. He objects because he loves the law. It’s a fundamental part of who he is. The teachings of Moses were how Peter and his people stayed faithful to their God in a world that constantly threatened them with extinction and assimilation. And now God is instructing him…to let go of that? To turn away from the sacred teachings that have meant not only ritual purity but identity and survival and a sure relationship with God? What God is asking of him is terrifying. God is telling him that he must die to himself in order to be reborn as something new.

Then three men appear and tell Peter that an angel has instructed them to bring him to the home of a Roman officer, and Peter understands what God is asking of him: in order to carry the Gospel where it needs to go, he has to break bread with Gentiles. He will need to lay down his life as he has known it in order to serve others. He goes and announces the good news of Christ to all of Cornelius’ household. And before he’s even finished talking, the Holy Spirit comes down on his audience. That same Holy Spirit that descended on Peter and the believers in Jerusalem on Pentecost now comes to this Roman household. There’s no difference. In this moment, there is no more us and them, just one Spirit-filled people. Peter’s companions are astounded by this sight. They can’t believe that God would come to these foreigners.

Now, this shouldn’t be news to any of them. Peter traveled with Jesus, saw him heal people of all faiths and ethnicities and walks of life. On Pentecost, he quoted the prophet Joel saying that God’s Spirit would be poured out on all flesh – all flesh, not just some. Peter and his followers knew that God’s love could extend to Gentiles, at least in theory. But as we’ve been hearing these past weeks, love isn’t love when it’s just a theory. Peter had proclaimed the expansive love of the Spirit, but embracing the physical reality of what that meant, that was something harder. When he was asked to make that love incarnate, to see it and touch it and eat it, his first instinct was to fight back. He wanted God to love all people, but he hadn’t been ready to do it himself.

And isn’t that what we always do? In this place, we are bold to proclaim God’s limitless, unconditional love for all people. We strive to create a community where everyone can find warmth and welcome, and to live lives that carry God’s mercy into the world. But believing in God’s love is much easier than being God’s love. In reality, there people with whom we’d rather not share fellowship. There are places we’d rather not go. There are differences we’d rather not work to overcome. So who are you afraid to love? Who do you wish you could love not just in theory but in practice, but don’t know how? Is it people with different political beliefs? Is it people of different nationalities or languages? Is it people of different social classes? People whose bodies look or work differently from your own? Who makes you want to leave the room, or look away, or cross on the other side of the street, and say, “sorry, God, but this person isn’t for me.” I wish I could say that my answer was “nobody.” I wish I could love all people without reservation or qualification. But if I said I did that, I would be lying. I believe that God’s love is for everyone, but faced with the flesh and blood reality of what that asks of me, I often shy away. All the time, I choose to love people who are easy and comfortable and safe rather than allowing the Spirit to lead me somewhere new.

But the Holy Spirit is not about what is easy. She pushes us out of our safe, comfortable places and challenges us to be more, to believe more, to love more. No matter how big we think God’s love is, it will always be bigger than that. When we see its incarnate reality, it will leave us astounded. The immensity of God’s love breaks us open and shakes us out of what we know. Sometimes that comes at a real price. Like Peter, we might be asked to rethink who we are and what we believe. We might need to let go of things we cherish – good things that have served us well, but cannot take us where we need to go next. We might need to lay down parts of our lives so that we can recognize new people as friends. This can be scary and painful, so thanks be to God that we don’t do it alone. The Spirit goes out before us and does the real work. She brought Philip to the Ethiopian official, and Peter to Cornelius, and she shows us where we need to go now. She is the one who inspires, and who baptizes, and who brings new life. Our job is simply to follow along, to recognize what the Spirit is doing, and to not withhold the water.

The best way – and indeed, the only way for us to know God’s love is to love each other. Christ says that we abide in the love of the Trinity when we keep God’s commandments, and the ultimate commandment is that we love one another. There are times when that love can only emerge through sacrifice, even loss. But Christ tells us that the love that lays itself down is the greatest and most godly love of all, and he promises that the feast that awaits us at God’s great banquet is far better than whatever meals we eat at our own tables. It is only natural that we feel some fear when we let go of the familiar and venture into the unknown. There’s nothing wrong with trepidation, so long as we hold to God’s truth that perfect love will cast out all fear. If we follow where the Spirit leads, yes, we will astounded, but on the other side of that astonishment is the fullness of the body of Christ. On the other side of that astonishment is God.

Amen.