9th Sunday after Pentecost Sermon

Cynthia (my wife) was worn out from work recently and had just given herself permission to take a couple days off so she could simply rest and breathe again. But then her cousin died, and off she went to Alabama – if not so much to comfort herself in her bereavement – as to comfort his brother (her other cousin) in his. And the trip was worth it, in every way. But… like so many of you in your travels this summer – the day after she got home – she tested positive for COVID, and spent all of last week going back and forth from her bed (to sleep) to her desk (to do the work that couldn’t wait and that no one else could do) to the shower (to let the steam break up her congestion) and round and round again. No rest for the weary, as they say.

That’s how it was for Jesus and his disciples. They’d just been on a mission trip of sorts and come back, excited and exhausted. “Let’s get away,” said Jesus. “Let’s rest for a while.” But when they did, they were followed by the crowds, so the work carried on. And then they got away again, rowing across the Sea of Galilee. But when they got to the other side, the people rushed at them again, bringing their sick, begging Jesus to heal them. Which he did.

We all know how it is – those seasons where you give and give and give, and it’s absolutely time to rest, but there are circumstances beyond our control and – somewhere on the spectrum between duty and love – we set our hands to the plough and carry on: take care of the children, take care of the parents, take care of the boss, take care of the Altar Guild…

And as I think about these things, I realize, too, how similarly burdened we are at a psychological level – how stress and anxiety and fear can be such an unrelenting force within us. We can’t turn it off. There’s no amount of faith we can muster that’s able to silence that incessant demand: “Be afraid. Be afraid. Be afraid.”

I’ve certainly felt that way all this past year with the presidential election. My basic strategy has been denial. [Blah, blah, blah. I’m not listening!] And, last week, that strategy pretty much collapsed on itself.

I’m sure when historians look back on this season of our nation’s story, they’ll point to June 27, 2024 – the date of the first presidential debate – as the moment when it all took off. We don’t yet know what “it” will be or what “it” will lead to – but “it” already includes a nose-dive for one party and an ear-grazing for the other, and – forgive me, I don’t mean to make light of it – but there’s now no avoidance: this chaos we’ve feared has begun.

God, have mercy.

It’s caused me to do a bit of soul searching this week: Who am I? and what I’m called to do and to be in this season in which we’re living? And, obviously – for me – there’s no separating my general sense of calling (as a human, as a Christian) from my specific sense of calling as a priest, and a priest for St. John’s: How do I lead this congregation with integrity and wisdom and courage? always – but specifically now – in this tinderbox of our times?

And the clarity I’ve found is nothing new for me (or for you, probably). But it was useful for me to articulate. Here is what I could put into words:

There are times and circumstances when Christian duty calls us to prophetic witness: to protest and resist – boldly and physically – raising our voice and positioning our bodies in defiant opposition to the advances of evil in our midst. History certainly honors those who have done it well: Martin Luther King, Jr. and Desmond Tutu and so many others. And, please, God, should the day come when I am so called, may I have the wisdom and clarity to do so courageously.

Because, generally speaking, I am not that kind of priest. There are those who are – for whom such bold activism is their first and most natural calling. And I am absolutely proud to call them colleagues, to recognize and honor what they are doing for the Kingdom of God in ways I am not.

Which is not to say I am wrong or a coward. (Of course, given any particular circumstance, I might absolutely be wrong or prove cowardly!)

But, generally speaking (and you know this), the kind of person I am – and so the kind of priest I am – is one whose first inclination is always to ask, “How must I change who I am in here [pointing to my heart] in order to love the one standing here [before me]?” The call I’m more likely to hear and to preach is to “love my enemy” than it is to “stop my enemy.”

It’s like the story that’s often told of the London Times asking the famous authors of its day, “What’s wrong with the world?” to which one simply replied,

“Dear Sir, I am. Yours, G. K. Chesterton.”

And, by and large, I sense that many who choose to make St John’s their church appreciate this. They appreciate that worship on a Sunday can be a reliable refuge from the chaos and divisiveness of the world. They appreciate the dependability of sermons that aren’t inflammatory, but keep saying (one way or another), “Love God. Love your neighbor,” with a tone drawn more from compassion than outrage.

But let us also be clear about one thing: This call to love is real work. As C. S. Lewis once wrote, “Love is not an affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” It’s a steady wish… outlasting the comfort of a Sunday sermon or hymn, and interfering with your week and your priorities. And it’s as far as it can be obtained… by you and your labors and your intent and your resources. Love is a determination and a commitment.

And, if it is love such as Jesus taught, it must extend beyond our families and friends. It must, in fact, extend to our adversaries as well. For that is where the Kingdom of God begins to shine with its far more distinctive power. Love of family and friends is good. By all means. But that human impulse is generally ubiquitous. Our work is greater than that. Our work is to be the light that drives out darkness. It is to be the love that drives out hate.

And for that power to be at work, we must strive for so much more than a placid equanimity that has grown no strength of character beyond a studied disregard of our enemy.

“If you want peace,” says Desmond Tutu, “you don’t talk to your friends; you talk to your enemies.”

This is the challenge of our day – to step beyond the confines of our friends and newsfeeds and all the various silos we build around ourselves to insulate us with echoes of our passions and convictions and self-righteousness. It is the challenge to seek the good of our neighbor, who proudly posts signs on their fences of the candidate we’re sure will ruin our nation, to go to them, with cookies in hand and a listening spirit that we may find them also to be God’s beloved – and now ours – who, just like me, wants to be happy, wants to be safe, wants to be loved.

This kind of peace-seeking love may see naïve and unrealistic. But I wonder: Have you tried it? Or is that just a grown-up excuse for a heart that’s bent on cynicism and contempt?

Let me tell you about Daryl Davis…

Daryl is a black man who’s made it his passion to befriend members of the KKK. “How can you hate me,” he asks, “if you don’t know me?” And with a posture of extraordinary ease and graciousness, he offers them his friendship.

One guy had just been elected to some higher rank within the Klan. Too embarrassed to ask his fellow Klansmen what he was supposed to do with this rank, he called Daryl. Daryl would know. He’d studied the Klan – their history and how it worked. So he answered the guy’s question – told him what he needed to know to be a better Klansman.

Another time, some Klan members were looking to rent a bus for one of their rallies. “Why don’t you use mine?” Daryl offered. (In his professional life, he’s a musician.) “Uh – you know we’re the Klan don’t you?” “Yeah. You can use my bus.” So they did. They did their Klan rally thing, brought the bus back to Daryl’s house, and he invited them in and served them drinks.

And do you know what Daryl collects? He collects KKK robes – robes of former Klansmen who have left the Klan because of their friendship with him. He has dozens of them. In fact, the entire Klan organization in his home state of Maryland collapsed because its highest-ranking members had all become Daryl’s friends.

Now you can image the many strong, progressive antagonists to racism who are disgusted with Daryl. “Uncle Tom,” they call him. Because the Klan is evil, it must be forcefully opposed – that entering with peace and friendship gives tacit approval. To which he simply responds, “How many robes have you gotten?”

If you’re only talking with friends who agree, how can the change begin? Had Jesus stayed in heaven, how would we be redeemed? If you want peace, you go to your enemies.

Daryl is not silent to their beliefs. But he chooses to fight racism with the power of friendship. He’ll share a meal, listen to what they have to say, and over time, they’re willing to listen to him.

There was one family full of racists who’d actually been on the Geraldo Show with Daryl. They hated him. But some time later, the father had been imprisoned hundreds of miles away. So Daryl called the mother on the phone. When she heard it was him she started cussing him up and down and he finally said, “Shut up, Tina. Listen to me.” He was offering to drive her family to the prison so they could visit their husband, their dad, an offer no Klansmen had made. And now the family is out of Klan and praising God for their friendship with Daryl.

I could go on and on about this man, but there’s not enough time. It’s in a documentary called, “Accidental Courtesy.” (It’s on Amazon Prime for $8.99. Or we could show it at the church. Just let me know.)

The point is this: It’s not enough to be passive with our enemies. And certainly taking up arms – or approving of those who do – is to fight darkness with darkness. We are the light. We must strive to be like Christ, who stretched out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that all might come within the reach of his saving embrace.

For Christ is our peace, breaking down the dividing walls of hostility between us, that there may be one humanity, built together as the dwelling place of God.