This sermon was preached for the tenth Sunday after Pentecost at St. Mark's, East Longmeadow. The text for this sermon were: Psalm 80:1-2, 8-18, Hebrews 11:29-12:2, and Luke 12:49-56.
Today’s Gospel passage landed pretty jarringly with me at first. It is hard to square this Jesus, who declares he has not come to bring peace but division, with the same Jesus who says, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” The Jesus who tells Peter, “Put down your weapon.” The one who answers violence with nonviolence at the cost of his life.
Part of why this Gospel might seem so harsh is that it comes to us through the scorching history of Christian violence - from colonialism to civil war to slavery to the crusades. Could that destruction and terror done in the name of God possibly be the fire and division he meant? At the same time, we must also consider, though, the times throughout our faith’s history when Christians have mistakenly prioritized peace and the avoidance of conflict over taking a stand for our convictions - we might think of German Protestants during the rise of Hitler, our own church’s cowardly stance during the Civil War. There are moments in our lives when choosing to take the stand Jesus would have us take requires us to be in conflict, even with those we love.
Starting a couple weeks ago, the bishops of all the different churches throughout the globe who trace their origins back to the Church of England gathered for a once in a decade conference called the Lambeth Conference. Meant to symbolize and strengthen unity through diversity within the Anglican Communion, the run-up to this year’s conference highlighted deep divisions that persist over the issue of same-sex marriage in painful ways. Despite this, our church, the Episcopal church, sent seven married gay and lesbians bishops, some accompanied by their uninvited spouses, to represent us as the full, dignified Christian leaders they are. Even when other bishops threatened to refuse to take communion alongside them, the rest of our bishops and other bishops from around the world rose to stand with their marginalized siblings in Christ, declaring in a signed statement,
“God is Love! This love revealed by Jesus, described in the Scriptures and proclaimed by the Church, is Good News for all – without exception. That is why we believe that LGBT+ people are a precious part of God’s creation – for each of us is ‘fearfully and wonderfully made,’ and all are equally loved…We will never shy away from tackling discrimination and prejudice against those of differing sexualities and gender identities.”
When conformity demands we sacrifice our integrity, the cost of unity without conflict is too great. It is Jesus himself who compels us to side with the outcast and shoved aside, even when that results in division.
It can be completely overwhelming to consider all the ways our religion, nation, and world feel divided right now. There is one type of division, though, that crops up again and again throughout history - back to Jesus’ time and beyond. Jesus speaks of the division between generations, father and son, mother and daughter. It’s a division about which much ink has been spilled - including by the author of Hebrews passage. He also reflects about the differences between the faith of his ancestors and his own, this new generation of Christians that have arisen following the birth and death of Christ.
When the writer of Hebrews looks back on the tales of his forbearers, he sees that the faith they had was different than his own. After all, the great story was not yet complete in the lifetimes of those born before Christ. God still had so much to accomplish in Jesus’ birth, ministry and death, so many promises to fulfill.
Yet the faith of these people of God was enough, and what they needed, to stand up for what was right, to make the brave and difficult choice in the moments that mattered most, even at the cost of their very lives.
Ultimately he lands his reflection here, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”
Much of the division that I see between generations as it relates to faith - and much of the sadness and grief as well - is a difficulty in understanding that the race that is set before one generation is often very different than that of the next. I have sat with many Episcopalians who lament that their children and grandchildren have no interest in or experience with practicing their faith, learning about Jesus, and relying on God. I have listened to many folks wonder with me where the rest of the people my age or younger are, why they are not in our pews. Sitting where we are today from the choices we’ve made and the experiences we’ve had, it can be a struggle to understand people these days.
Adding to that angst, there’s a perception that the pattern of life that was set before previous generations in the church was predictable, dependable - one the church could and did count on for its continuance. I’ve heard it many times: a teenager and young adult might drift away from the church for some years, but they came back - in old days to their home family parish - to marry, raise their children, and to carry on its traditions. But the patterns of life today have, on the whole, radically altered. It’s not just that folks spending more and more of their young adult lives unmarried and childfree than ever before. According to a Pew Research Study from last year, 44% adults ages 18-49 say that it is not too likely or not at all likely that they will have ever children of their own someday, a remarkable 7% jump from just three years before. Americans are astoundingly mobile, with extended families scattered all across the world. We move from our hometowns for education and employment opportunities, but also for retirement. Then there’s the pandemic - there’s just so many factors that have shifted what church membership looks like over the decades.
And so the race has changed, as it always does. Each generation has difficulty understanding the choices each other has made, they always have. For many, the divide is particularly painful when the different choices are about faith and faith expression.
But here’s the thing, too: I’ve been honored to learn and know so many of your stories in these last months. They are all beautifully unique, really they are! They each speak to a personal journey that puts a twist on or deviates from or downright defies the assumed journey of faith. St. Mark’s is a place that has a strong history of making room for people who take the less beaten path.
And so the key question that emerges for us, as a church, as a people of faith, is not whether we can convince others to make the exact same choices we have. The question is whether we offer and articulate a faith that equips people to persevere in the particular race that has been set before them in this time. Do we acknowledge that each person runs at their own authentic pace, their own unique obstacles and triumphs? Do we not only make space for the diversity of human experience - do we celebrate it and speak into it? Do we see how difference - even when it feels like division - can be a source of strength?
As Presiding Bishop Michael Curry said recently, “It’s not enough to be The Episcopal Church; we need to be the Episcopal branch of the Jesus movement. We don’t need to make more Church-ians; we need to make more Christ-ians.” Our calling is not to ensure that the next generation does church in the same way that we did, or even relates to Jesus in the way that makes the most sense to us. Our calling is to bring folks into awareness that God is right there with them, has always been with them, in the midst of their life challenges.
When I take a page out of the author of Hebrews’ book and look back to my Irish Catholic and English Anglican ancestors, I see people of faith to admire. Faith brought my great-great-great Aunt Nellie across the Atlantic from Ireland as a young teen with a hopeful stack of schoolbooks. Faith was with my great-great-great-great-great grandfather Samuel Benjamin when he endured the chaos and frostbite of the American Revolutionary War. Faith accompanied my great-grandmother in her grief for her lost infant, just as it had so many of the mothers before her.
I imagine some in this great cloud of witnesses would have not approved of my womanly priesthood or my mixed marriage. I imagine many parts of the way I picture and worship Jesus would be startling and alien to them. But I hope they would recognize in me a perseverance in the face of the particular adversities of my own life. I hope they are part of the great cloud of witnesses to my faith.
When I look forward to my descendants and the generations to come, I try to resist the urge to guess at what the race that will be set before them might be. As much as I fret for their future, I come back to the need to trust in a loving God. I come back to the choice to do my best, and keep doing my best, to tell my children and the people I love about what faith in the God of love has done for me and my life. I choose to believe that faith will come to their aid in the moment they need it, in the way that speaks to them. I choose to trust that God will be right there with them in all of it, just as I trust that I will somehow mysteriously be there, too, part of their great cloud of witnesses, cheering them on.
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