When Patience is Tested - A Homily for Proper 28 (National Thanksgiving), 2011

Homily for Proper 28 (National Thanksgiving)
Sunday, October 9th, 2011
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Exodus 32:1-14

“Turn from you fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people.”
-Exodus 32:12

God had every right to be angry with his people. He had delivered them from the hand of pharaoh and slavery in Egypt. He had led them dry-shod through the Red Sea. He had given them manna to eat in the wilderness. And still, the moment their Moses leader had gone up the mountain to converse with God, the Hebrew people decided to make a false god and bow down and worship it. The anger of God was kindled against his people and God was ready to raise his hand against them.

This story tells us that even the patience of God can be tested once in a while. In one way this gives me great comfort, for I am often disappointed in myself when I find my wrath kindled and my patience tested. While each of us has different levels of tolerance, I am sure that all of us have a breaking point. All of us, from time-to-time, find our patience tested by those around us, not only our adversaries, but family members, friends, and yes (dare I say it?), even fellow parishioners. We are only human, and perhaps it will come as a comfort to all of us that as we find our patience tested in difficult situations, by difficult people, even God finds his patience tested.

When our patience is tested it is easy to raise our voices in violent response. Throughout history, the taking up of arms often happens when we find our patience for talk and conversation exhausted. Violent words, violent actions, regrettable words and regrettable actions often follow the loss of patience. When a certain fury rises up within us, rages within, we are quick to act, and perhaps not so quick to think about the consequences. But oh, there is much time to think about consequences after the act is done, and much of the thinking we do is about our regret for the hastiness of our actions.

In his book Writing in the Dust, written immediately after the events of September 11th, 2001, Archbishop Rowan Williams, who was a short distance from the World Trade Centre that morning reflects on the natural desire to act decisively, vindictively, when we are hurt:

"The Response of at least some people in the face of deep injury, once feeling has returned, is a passionate striking out; there is something recognizable about the language of Psalm 137 – ‘ let their children die horribly, let them know what humiliation and exile are like.’ It is an honest moment; but for those of us who are not totally helpless in terms of internal or external resources it is only a moment" (p. 18).

His point is that when our patience is driven to the point of exhaustion, in that moment, we are ready to let loose. We are ready to exact vengeance. We are ready to make the decisive strike against what has driven us to this frenzied moment of exasperation. But perhaps, we need to step back for a moment and consider what acting in such circumstances will do. To recognize that the shattering of patience is but a moment that must be put in the larger framework of our ultimate response. Williams goes on to reflect that as people who have the freedom that we do in the West, we must use that freedom wisely. We have the freedom to think and express ourselves in so many ways. Williams notes:

"We have something of the freedom to consider whether or not we turn to violence, and so, in virtue of that very fact, are rather different from those who experience their world as leaving them no other option. But if we have that freedom, it ought to be less likely that we reach for violence as a first resort … it means putting on hold our most immediate feelings – or at least making them objects of reflection; and means trying to pull apart the longing to re-establish the sense of being in control and the longing to find a security that is shared …. It means acknowledging and using the breathing space; and also longing and using the rage and revengefulness as a way of sensing a little where the violence comes from." (p 23-4)

If only we had taken the Archbishop’s sage words to heart ten years ago. Now we are left reflecting on ten years of our response in Afghanistan and wondering, was it all worth it? The point, though, is this: As Christian people, we have a freedom in Christ that requires of us a higher response to anger, to hate, to infidelity and faithlessness. In Christ Jesus we have the freedom not to strike back with immediate force (either on the global scale or in our communities and in our relationships). We have the higher calling, when our patience is sorely tested, to breathe deeply, to create some space, to attempt to understand from where the pain that is thrust at us has come, and consider what words we will speak into that situation and what healing and reconciling actions we might live by. It seems to me, this is the calling of a Christian community.

On the mountain, where even God’s wrath was kindled and God himself was prepared to strike down his own people, Moses implored God to take a breath, to reflect on what he was about to do. Moses reminded God that 400 years of slavery is not so easily healed by a walk through the Red Sea and some manna in the Wilderness. Moses reminded God that healing is a process, that deliverance is a journey, and that God himself had made a promise. Moses reminded God of God’s own gracious and loving nature. Moses reminded God of God’s own merciful nature; and God relented.

If it gives me comfort that even God’s patience can be sorely tempted, then it also gives me comfort to know that God can reconsider wrath in the moment of temptation. This story gives me hope, should give all of us hope, that even though we may from time-to-time find ourselves driven to the breaking point where our patience is tested, that we are capable of a much higher calling, a much more compassionate response, and a much more reconciling love. When human beings, God’s children, were at their most rebellious, God chose not to raise his arm in anger, but sent his Son and came to be amongst us himself in Jesus Christ, to understand the pain and brokenness we feel and experience as human beings; to transform us that we might be made whole. When God’s patience could have been most sorely tested, rather than raising his hand, God reached out his hand in the person of Jesus Christ and saved us from ourselves. I can think of nothing greater for which to give thanks; and I can think of no more thankful way to live than to live into that higher calling of compassion, understanding, and peacemaking.

c. 2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

Why it Can be Hard to Give Thanks - A Homily for Proper 28, Year C, 2010 (National Thanksgiving)

Homily for Proper 28 (National Thanksgiving), Year C, 2010
Sunday, Oct 10th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 17:11-19

"Were not ten made clean?" (Luke 17:17)

There are certain seasons in our lives when it may seem that we have very little for which to give thanks. Those of us in the so-called “caring professions” know only too well that many people are in the midst of making very difficult journeys. One does not need to be a priest, or a physician, or a counselor to witness the pain that many people are experiencing. How many of us have watched marriages dissolve, or been with loved ones when they receive unwanted news of a chronic or terminal illness? Indeed, there are many amongst us who are experiencing such painful journeys, themselves. Thus, it can seem somewhat forced, or even trite, when we gather together on this particular Sunday of the year and offer thanks for all the goodness in our lives. There are seasons in our lives when we wonder what we have to give thanks for. Whenever we gather as families and friends and make merry at times of festive celebration, there will always be those who feel as though they are on the outside, not able to make merry, for the weight of the world is literally on their shoulders. We ought always to be sensitive to such a reality.

While there are times when we feel we have so little to be thankful for, there are also times when we have much to celebrate. Yet, sometimes that spirit of thanksgiving is overwhelmed by the frenzy that is brought about the thing that is the cause for celebration. I think back, for instance, to the births and infancy of our children. One cannot imagine a more wonderful gift, and yet one cannot imagine a more exhausting and frenzied time of life. It is difficult to pause and give thanks when the blessing becomes an all-consuming responsibility. I think also of someone who was without a job for many months and then finds new employment, only to be overwhelmed with the workload, and the stress of allocating the new income to pay down accumulated debt. Sometimes the joyous things in life can distract us from taking the time to offer a word of thanks.

On the way to Jerusalem, ten lepers approach Jesus, calling out to him, but keeping their distance. Now, the leper of Jesus’ time was an outcast, ritually unclean, and was required to announce his or her presence in a loud voice in order that others might not be rendered ritually impure by coming into contact with them. This is why these particular people call out to Jesus from a distance to have mercy upon them. In this particular case (unlike many of his other healings) Jesus does not touch them, or even proclaim them cured, he simply tells them to go and present themselves to the priests, those who can judge the purity or impurity of any given person. To their great surprise, in hearing this simple instruction, they have been made clean. One of the ten, a Samaritan, thus doubly outcast as he was from a derided race of people, returned to Jesus, knelt down and thanked him; and what of the other nine? Jesus ponders this question with the one that remained; were not ten made well? Why has only one given thanks?

Why did the Samaritan, alone, offer thanks?

Jesus’ words have often been taken as a condemnation of the other nine, but I wonder if this is really the case? Perhaps Jesus has recognized, posing a rhetorical question, that it is not always easy to give thanks. Consider for a moment, the plight of these ten individuals: they had been ostracized and cast out from their society, unable to participate in public life and unable to participate in religious observance at the Jerusalem Temple. They called out for mercy, and they received mercy. Jesus healed them. The healing they truly sought, though, was not simply the restoration of failing bodies, but a kind of social healing, a restoration and reintegration into their society and their religion. Having tasted that possibility, would you or I not do as they did and rush to participate and be a part of the thing from which they had so long been excluded. They sought healing and restoration, and their enthusiasm for what they received was a sort of lived out thanksgiving.

We must probe more deeply, though. Was thanksgiving even required of them? After all, they did exactly what Jesus told them to do – go and show yourselves to the priests. They did not look back, but did what they were told. Is it not somewhat unfair then for Jesus to criticize them for not coming back to offer a word of thanks?

The nine are not unlike most of us, who when having the tide go our way for a change, take full advantage of our good luck and plunge headlong into the stuff of life. I am sure they had thankful hearts because they went forth so enthusiastically.

What that one person in ten realized, though, was that the giver and the gift were one and the same. What that one leper realized was that what Jesus had given him was the opportunity to connect, to no longer be alone or isolated. The other nine plunged headlong into the world, but the last one plunged headlong into God. He realized that he did not need to run off to see the priests to cross the boundary from clean to unclean, from outcast to friend, the opportunity was standing before him. He approached Jesus, knelt down and worshiped him. The boundary that seemed impossible to cross was crossed. The divisions were healed. As he made contact with Jesus, this man was reconciled with God and with his society.

Sometimes, the thankfulness of an entire community is carried in the prayers of a single person.

Illness, broken relationships, bereavement, losses of all kinds, estrangement from friends, all have the potential to isolate us from each other, and in doing so lead us to believe that we are isolated from God. But as much as we may feel this to be true, it is not the case. In isolating us from each other, these pieces of brokenness and loss would have us believe that we are alone and without aid or succour. But this is emphatically not true. God is with us always, and God is always stretching out his healing hand to us in Jesus Christ. And while the body may give way, and while others around us may fall away, God is ever and always enveloping us in love, proclaiming to us that we are not alone, or isolated or without hope. Even more, God is always working to restore us amidst our brokenness to community and to those around us.

Claiming the blessing is often thanksgiving enough. Jesus didn’t recall the other nine and take their healing back. That they were restored to health and wholeness in the community was enough. They could be forgiven for forgetting the formal “thank-you.” Yet, once in a while, when we recognize the blessing, something stirs within us to turn around and glance back, and if we take that moment to do so, we will see a smiling Jesus, delighting in the work of healing, restoration and reconciliation. And seeing the joy on his face, the divine gift of thanksgiving stirs in our hearts, and forms on our lips, and then what could dare stop us from falling down and giving thanks and praise to God?

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

An Existentialist Christian Reflection on Thanksgiving

Sermon for Harvest Thanksgiving
Sunday, Sept 30th, 2007 (8 a.m.)
Preached at Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Matt. 6:25-33

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” – Matt. 6:28-29

To what degree are we ruled by our anxiety? To what degree do our fears overwhelm us and inhibit us from functioning? To what degree are our decisions informed not by what we hope will happen, but by what we hope will not happen? And even more tragically, to what degree are we resigned to allow this anxiety to turn to pessimism and the abandonment of all hope? My wife and I were reflecting recently, as members of the Gen X generation, as children of the 70’s and teens of the 80’s as to how anxiety and pessimism governed our formative years. We came of age in an era in which it was assumed that at any moment the proverbial finger would press the button and a nuclear holocaust would be unleashed. And it was not simply a matter of if it would happen, but rather of when it would happen. I think most of us thought, and assumed, that we would not make it to adulthood, and that when one tallied the number of nuclear warheads it took to wipe humanity off the face of the earth, and compared it with the exponentially higher number of warheads actually in existence, we assumed that we really did not have much power to change the world.

As I recall, it was difficult for us to be thankful for much, given the psychological mindset in which our generation functioned. As a young person, I often heard it said, that we as young people didn’t show much gratitude for the what we had … and most of my friends had no concept of the hardships that our depression-era grandparents had known, and yet the question remained, amidst all we had, why should we give thanks if we were living on the edge of the apocalypse?

When the disciples separated themselves from family and friends. When they gave up their professions, gave up their property, gave up their futures, to follow this Jesus, they must have experienced a deep anxiety. And later, after our Lord had left them and in the early days of the Church when members of the Church known to St. Matthew were being cast out of their synagogues, persecuted for continuing to follow the now absent Jesus, they must have known a frightening anxiety. And how would the words of Jesus have sounded to them, either while he was with them, or after he had left them… “Do not worry, consider the birds of the air – they neither sow nor reap; consider the lilies, they neither toil nor spin…” would these words have allayed the anxiety of these early Christians any more than they allayed my anxiety as a young person, or the anxiety any of us feel as we struggle through the trials of life today? Do these words help us when face the reality that a loved one has died and we see them no longer? Do these words help us when we receive a chronic or terminal diagnosis that dashes our hopes and dreams? Do these words help us when we lose a job, a paycheque, the means for supporting our family? It is not only difficult for us not to fear, it is near impossible to even consider the possibility of giving thanks.

And yet, as I cast my mind back to those days when I was a teenager, when we thought that world was coming to an end, I also recall a passionate search for meaning in which many of my peers and I were engaged. Somewhere amidst that fear that today might be the day that it all ends, was the yearning to find meaning in why we were here at all, if it was all about to end. Ultimately, I think many of us discovered the meaning of our helplessness – and it empowered us. And that meaning was found in this: the gift of life – there was a moment when we were not, and there would be a moment, when we would pass from this earth. But in this moment, we live, and in this moment is mystery, and beauty, and grace. Perhaps I had no power to eliminate even one nuclear warhead, and perhaps I had no power to extend my life a single day, but I knew this: I had the power to live this day as a gift, embracing all the good things given to me by God – to write, to draw, to sing, to laugh, to love my family, to be loved by others, to be human, amidst the apparent hopelessness of the age. To be thankful for such things was to live, to truly live, to embrace life, while living in the culture of death.

Ultimately, none of us -- children of the depression, children of the war, children of the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, children of any age -- have any claim on tomorrow. And so Jesus says, do not worry about tomorrow. I would hope that none of us would fall into a nihilism that would prevent us from working for a better tomorrow, for I don’t believe this is what Jesus is saying. Rather, I suggest, he is telling us that the moment of decision is always “now.” Each moment of my life, I choose to be Christian, or I choose not to be a Christian. Over and over again, I am confronted with the moment in which I must claim my faith or deny it. Over and over again, I am confronted with my own humanity, in which I choose to embrace the gift of humanity, or to deny it. Over and over again, in each moment the Word is made flesh in our midst, and we can choose to behold its glory or turn from its presence. Over and over again, Christ our Lord is Risen, and we can choose to stand with the risen Christ, in a transformed life, or to fall away and simply disappear as if we had never existed. Ultimately, we are a people of hope because confronted with this choice, we have the opportunity to say “yes,” and “yes,” and once again, “yes.” We are a people of hope because we do not have to wait for tomorrow to find the meaning of life, or to experience the mystery of God. It is upon, again, and again, and in this moment, again. And for this we are a thankful people, and for this reason, we turn again today, and live.

Text copyright 2007, The Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This post may not be reprinted or redistributed in any form, in whole or in part, without express written permission of the author.