Fourth Sunday after Epiphany Sermon
When we talk about “authority,” and what we mean by that, it seems to me there are a couple different ways to understand it.
The first is the kind of authority that has to do with power. Someone with authority has the power to enforce rules or dictate behavior or control the circumstances within their sphere of influence or responsibility. Now, to be clear, this kind of authority can be used for good, ensuring that good rules are obeyed or that good decisions are made. This is what we hope for from politicians or police officers or priests or parents: that they would use their authority – their power – for good. But as we all know, this kind of authority can also cause great harm, because it carries with it the potential for enormous abuse, because they can get away with it. And we’re all too familiar with what that looks like.
But there’s another kind of authority. And that’s the authority that has to do with knowledge and wisdom. Someone with this kind of authority knows what they’re talking about. You listen to your oncologist because they know what cancer is and how it works and what your test results mean. And, by and large, the only thing you know right now is your fear and vulnerability. So you listen to them because you now need someone with this kind of authority in your life. “And, please God,” you pray, “may they be worthy of the authority I’m giving them.”
And as diverse as our world is, with all its complexity – science, history, sociology, cooking, exercise – there are that many authorities out there. It’s endless, how much there is to know and understand. And in every category, someone has authority. A friend of mine was the world authority on Mesopotamian cylinder seals – these tiny, engraved rolling-pin like things used in the Ancient Near East to make imprints on wet clay. She walked me through vast archives of the British Museum, pulling out drawer after drawer of these seals. She was the authority. No one alive knew more about them than she did.
I find, in my life, I’m always in the market for people with this kind of authority. Who is it that has a grasp on things I want to know, and knows how to communicate it clearly? Or at least in ways that make sense to me. I’m been fascinated lately with Renaissance art in Rome. So I wrote an art historian who lives in Rome: What books should I be reading? Whose voice should I be listening to?
And when Jesus of Nazareth appeared on the scene – teaching in the synagogues and in homes and on hillsides – it was this kind of authority that was emanating from him. “This guy knows what he’s talking about.” Now, certainly, he was talking about Jewish faith and interpreting the Jewish scriptures. But his authority went beyond that. He was in a totally different league. “He’s not like the scribes we’re used to listening to. This guy’s different.”
And I think what made his authority so different, was that he wasn’t just dealing with “religion.” He was dealing with why we care about religion in the first place: “What’s it all about? Who is God and what is God like? Who are we? What’s it mean to be human in this world?” And what Jesus was saying was fascinating and appealing and desirable and had about it the aura of truth. That’s the kind of authority he had. People listened when he spoke, and they flocked to see him, because what they heard from him mattered.
He was showing them the “Kingdom of God.” That was the language he used. “The Kingdom of God is like this…” or “The Kingdom of Heaven is like this…” And what he was saying was: “This is what God is like. This is what matters to God. So this is faith looks like. This is how we join God in living this life in this world. True religion is not about rules and prohibitions and obscure secret knowledge. It’s about living a life in obedience and solidarity with God which will always manifest in solidarity with one another and the seeking of the other’s good. Love God. Love your neighbor.”
And he didn’t just preach love. He lived love. And that, too, was part of his authority. The Kingdom of God was manifest in him. And they knew it. Religion now had a face, and that face was kind. And for 2000 years, despite the relentless hypocrisy of the church and Christ’s followers, Christ himself has remained a constant beacon of hope. His authority has never waned.
But let me just say, it sure is helpful when – in our time and our place – new prophets and leaders arise who share this kind of authority, who bear witness – through their lives and their words and their love – what the Kingdom of God looks like here and now.
Francis of Assisi was such a person in 13th century Italy. The church of his day was a disaster. But Francis was the real deal. And people flocked to him, ‘cause you know it when you see it. He was a human, just like we are. Yet he believed and embodied the gospel with a kind of purity and completeness, that made the whole thing believable in a way mere “religion” could never do.
In this era of existential crisis we’re in – of political chaos in the United States, of endless conflict between Arabs and Jews in the Middle East, of climate change and all that will lead to in years to come – I find myself longing for such a person to rise in our midst, who can embody and communicate the Kingdom of God with such authority that many, many people would turn and hope and join in making “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.”
This is my yearning.
But it is not sufficient, merely to wait and pray, “Oh, God, send someone to do this work, lest we perish.” Yes, it would be fabulous if such an authority were among us. But for you and for me, just regular schmucks who have begun to believe in Christ and the goodness of God’s Kingdom he shows us, our duty is now to make that manifest Kingdom, however we may do so.
And as I think on these things, I actually do see a glimmer of hope. I do see, one way – at least – to bring forth God’s Kingdom in our midst.
It starts with the basic, Christian virtue of “love your neighbor.” We all have neighbors; we know who they are – next door, in the pew, at work, anyone with whom our lives intersect – they are our neighbor. And if we want to love them, the most fundamental ingredient of that love is to see and believe in their worth. They matter. Their lives matter. Their experience in this world matters. And nobody knows more about their lives than they do. So if we’re wishing some prophet would arise among us with authority to tell us what it’s all about, and if we are at all serious about Christ’s mandate to love God and love our neighbor, we’ve already got the authority we need in our midst – lots of them in fact. We’re surrounded by authorities! They’re each the authority who can show us what we must know if we are to love them with anything that resembles love.
If we want to love our neighbor, the first and most important step is to let them show us who they are. And I guarantee, they will not do that unless we begin with a posture of humility and compassion that communicates in truth: I see you. And you matter. And your life now matters to me. Only then will they dare to reveal the truth of who they are. (And as an aside, this is something we also need to do – especially need to do – with our family members. There is usually far more to know of them than the way we’ve defined them and their place in the family.) Only when someone feels seen and safe will they reveal their truer selves. And only then can we begin to love them in that deeply unifying way that was always the hallmark of Christ’s love.
This is true of individuals. And it is also true of whole groups of people. I am not yet elderly, so I don’t know what it means to be old and all that entails – to have lived through many decades of social change, to have had a sibling die, to have retired from a career that was meaningful to me. I am not a woman, so I don’t know what it means to have a woman’s body or to live in a society rooted in patriarchy. I am not Native American. I have no idea what it feels like to inhabit the land of my ancestors while being utterly marginalized from the American dream. And there’s all the good stuff, too, that I also know nothing about: what it feels like to watch a child land their first career job, or to know the dignity of raising a child of God in my womb, or being taught the wisdom and heritage of my native ancestors.
All I know is “me” and this particular life I’m living and the uniqueness of my own experience, whose worth I’m coming to believe in.
But I cannot live a satisfying “me-life” that does not also expand to include “you,” my neighbor, and your life. It is as Jesus prayed, “I am in you and you are in me.” This is the mystery that lies at the heart of the Kingdom of God Jesus revealed. We each matter unto ourselves and we belong to one another, and we belong to God, and God to us. If we want to know ourselves most fully, we enter into the divine love which will always include our neighbor and every neighbor.
At Jesus’ Transfiguration, the voice of God came down from heaven to the disciples: “This is my son, the beloved, listen to him.” And that is what we, in faith, are ever striving to do: to hear and obey the voice of Christ.
But in so doing, in learning to follow him who joined us in this life, meeting us where we are, that same command is equally made of each of our neighbors: “This is my son, and this is my son; this is my daughter, and this is my daughter, and this is my gender-nonconforming child… Listen to them.”
Listen to them. See them. And make a home for them in your affections.
And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed among you, every one.
Amen.