JOHN the BAPTIST: Luke 1:76-77; 24 June 2007
John D. Lane - Trinity Church, Staunton VA

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.

I remember learning in seminary, and having reinforced by my mentor Al Reiners in Charlotte, one of the cardinal rules of engaging preaching: You don’t have to say it all in one sermon. There is always next week. For the first time in 35 years, there is no next week, so please excuse me if I am even a little longer and meandering than usual. I will speak despite the warning of a wise yogi who said, “Before speaking, consider whether it is an improvement upon silence.” The man who wrote them once went nineteen years without speaking. Any volunteers? Any nominations?

There was a man who entered a monastery that had very strict rules about speaking. Other than the abbot, each monk was allowed to speak only once every ten years, and then to say only two words. After ten years in the monastery, the monk went to see the abbot and said, “Hard bed.” Ten years later, he came back and said, “Bad food.” After a full 30 years in the monastery, he came back yet again and told the abbot, “I quit.” The abbot replied, “I’m not surprised. You’ve done nothing but complain since you got here.”

I wish my mother could be here this morning. Two days ago would have been her 100th birthday, and she was always extremely proud of me. Because of her, I’m sure that I was an Episcopalian in the womb. When she died 9½  years ago, seven Episcopal clergy took part in the funeral. If I hadn’t been sitting in the pew, the number would have been eight. She was very adept verbally and very funny.

Whether it be training or inclination or vocation or experience, I tend to think theologically about life. My dictionary defines theology as “the field of study, thought, and analysis which treats of God, God’s attributes, and God’s relations to the universe; the science or study of divine things or religious truth; divinity.”

As preachers, clergy are called to connect the then of Jesus to the now of us. As theologians, we are called to connect the reality of God to the world in which we currently live. On the one hand, theology is ancient, as the hymn puts it, “a thousand years the same.” On the other hand, theology is constantly changing, if only because our relationship with God and our perception of God changes. With that boring preamble, I want to talk about a few things I have come to know theologically, along with how I came to learn them.

God calls us by name and the shepherd knows the sheep. When I was in seminary, I was dispatched to West Orange NJ, home of Thomas Edison, to raise money on Theological Education Sunday. I preached, talked to an adult class, then had lunch with Fr. Brown–think G.K. Chesterton’s ‘Fr. Brown’ series–and his wife before going back to New York. The rector’s wife told me a story. Her husband had gone to seminary from the Diocese of New York. When their first child was born, he called the bishop and asked if the bishop would baptize the baby. The bishop would be delighted, came the reply.

They went to the huge Cathedral of Saint John the Divine (where I was later ordained deacon) on a Saturday morning. Bishop Donegan–who later ordained me as priest–baptized the baby in front of family and friends, then chatted with them for 10-15 minutes. On graduation, her husband got a job in Newark, and never served in the Diocese of New York. Ten years later, she ran into Bishop Donegan for the second time in her life, on the streets of Manhattan this time, and he called her by her first name. She was blown away.

We are all equal in the eyes of God. My maternal grandparents, who were very good, upstanding, god-fearing people were also very bigoted. Maybe it was the time and place; I don’t know. They had derisive nicknames for every group: dagoes, micks, darkies, kikes, chinks, queers, etc. My mother loved her parents, but she didn’t copy them at all in bigotry. She and my father never thought they were better than anyone else, and they had close friends of every type and category that my grandparents routinely derided. I learned from my parents, not my grandparents. In each generation, we find a new group to ridicule or fear. It doesn’t make us better. It’s time to stop!

The Christian community includes everyone. The Episcopal Church is very proud of its diversity, but this is more theory than practice in most places. When I was in seminary, I was very fortunate to work in a parish that really was diverse. It was located on 109th Street in East Harlem. The congregation consisted of Puerto Ricans and other Hispanics, Haitians, West Indians, African-Americans, and whites. I don’t remember seeing any Asians, but there may have been some. The services were in either English or Spanish. Gala services, such as today, were bilingual. The congregation arrived by foot, subway, bus, taxi, and chauffeured limousine. There were multi-millionaires and people on welfare. Whatever their situation outside the parish, those who entered the Church of Saint Edward the Martyr were part of the same community of love. There were no barriers, of any kind. The population of the parish was like that of the Kingdom of God. My grandparents would have been stunned. God was pleased.

Questions are often more important than answers. Only God has all the answers. One of the great things about the Episcopal Church is our openness to questions, doubt, different interpretations, all within the context of worship and communion together. A great sadness is the attempt by some of our members to narrow things down, define answers, stop listening to questions. When Jesus was on trial, he answered some questions, and those who stood in judgment over him literally stopped up their ears because they didn’t like what he was saying. Be open to new insights.

If we are engaged in the gospel, we have within us a constant struggle between Pharisee and Disciple. Pharisees, whether then or now, are devoutly religious people. They are exclusive, closed, rule makers, traditional, life-denying. They are afflicted with spiritual pride. Ironically, Disciples are not always overtly religious. They are inclusive, open, compassionate, creative, life-giving. In the Parable of the Prodigal Son, the elder son might be called a Pharisee. The father has the qualities of a Disciple, offering love without limit to both his sons. Be a Disciple.

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. My father was a great truth-teller though not, of course, about his own feelings. He was direct, but rarely unkind. He did not tell people what they wanted to hear, if he himself didn’t believe it. Truth is a rare commodity these days, and it should be treated as fine gold when it is found. Several months ago, a number of us went over to Charlottesville to hear Dr. Paul Farmer, who is the subject of the book, Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World. His field is public health, anthropology, and infectious diseases. He teaches at Harvard Medical School, and is seriously involved in health issues all over the world.

At this lecture, a woman asked something like this, “What do you say to people who tell you that giving money to help the Third World disappears into someone’s pocket, and doesn’t really do any good?” Farmer replied, “You have to discover whether the person wants to end the conversation or begin one. If they’re just trying to find some reason not to be involved, move on. If they have a serious concern and want to find a way to solve this problem, then you have an ally in helping the needy.” We have become so partisan and so ideological these days that a serious search for truth is unusual. Where would you look, for instance, if you wanted to have a good and enlightening discussion about Iraq? Tough to find.

God offers abundance. My parents were married one year after the stock market crash of 1929, and they lived their whole lives with a fear of scarcity. They were savers. When my sisters and I helped them move in 1985, I counted 16 1-pound cans of coffee. Perhaps they were expecting that poor weather in Colombia would wipe out Juan Valdez’s crop. I’m a cheapskate by upbringing. Fortunately, I have witnessed and experienced the generosity of others, and I have attempted to emulate them. It is not only more blessed to give than to receive; it is also much more satisfying.

Ministering to the needy is the shortest route to personal spiritual development. When we come face to face with very good people, some of whom have very sad stories to tell, it’s hard to be a Pharisee anymore. Those who have worked at the Free Clinic or Noon Lunch or in Honduras will tell you that they get more out of such ministry than they give. And what they get is a more profoundly spiritual approach to life. Read Matthew 25, beginning at verse 31.

God is alive and often a surprise. Men’s Bible Study finished the Book of Revelation just last week. Revelation is confusing, full of intense visual images, often violent, and sometimes sublime. The Late Great Planet Earth, which came out in 1970, and the Left Behind series, first published in the mid-1990's, have been phenomenal best-sellers. Both are inspired by the Book of Revelation, and both extend the biblical predictions into the present time. Again and again, Jesus says you will not know the time or the season and, time after time, authors and preachers get rich by ignoring these words.

Fundamentalism, as I see it, often tries to put God into a box. It is a religious movement that prefers clear answers rather than life-expanding questions. Lately, I’ve been reading more fundamentalists, because some of them are trying mightily to take over the Episcopal Church that I joined while still in the womb. They read the Bible like a contract. If God wrote it down, He Himself can’t change his mind! In my view–and the Bible’s–God can take care of Himself, and doesn’t need our help. We need His help, and ought to stop trying to boss God around.

Life has its seasons, and they all can be good. The headmaster at my high school in Nepal was a very bright guy. In some societies, and Nepal is one of them, no one is more respected or better paid than a teacher. Ganesh Datt Lekhak was a mover and shaker in the community. After I left, he went on to become the equivalent of a congressman, and then an entrepreneur and wheeler-dealer. By now, he must be in his late seventies. He has given up all his previous phases, and become a Hindu holy man. Working on the health of his soul is what is important to him now. I remember 10 or 12 years ago being aware that I didn’t particularly care what other people thought of me, and I happened to mention this to a friend. “Well, you’re fifty.” It seems that, once you’re fifty, Gail Sheehy (author of Passages) and others tell us, you care deeply about living up to whatever standards you’ve developed, but aren’t bothered if you aren’t pleasing the world. Jesus must have reached fifty early. He didn’t look to others for approval, did he?

God calls us and God gives us free will. As Robert Frost noted in his poem “The Road Not Taken,” life is a series of choices. I have served only three parishes in the last 35 years. To be as honest as my father, I should say there were only three parishes that ever offered me a job. In Charlotte, I learned from a master, who taught me a lot, gave me a lot of freedom, and gave me a lot of support when I needed it. From Al, I copied how to deal with those working for me: Throw them in the water and let them learn to swim–and be prepared to call 911 if they don’t. In New Orleans where I became a rector at age 30, I did feel as though I’d been thrown in the water or, like Brer Rabbit, that I’d been thrown in the briar patch. At Trinity, I have had many opportunities to try new things, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. And I have been very fortunate to have you all, parishioners and staff and people in the community, working with me. One person can’t do much, but 700 of us really can. I sincerely thank everybody here, along with those who have gone before.

Ordained ministry is not as easy as it looks. True, we only work on Sundays, but that one day can be brutal. In order to be a good priest, I have often neglected my family. We didn’t spend weekends together. When a cry for help came at some inconvenient time, it was usually Bizzy who would say I must go–and forget about whatever she had planned. So I give thanks for my wonderful wife and kids, and I apologize for not being a better husband and dad. I love you.

One last and very important theological tidbit: Everything’s going to be all right. Several years after seminary, Bizzy and I and toddler Edward went to Massachusetts General Hospital to visit the former seminary chaplain, Rowland Cox, who was being treated for bone cancer. I was the first person in the room, and I said, “Rowland, how are you?” Immediately, I could tell it was perhaps the stupidest thing I ever said. He looked dreadful. He was very pale, very weak, could barely hold his head up to look at us. His reply seemed the grossest form of denial: “John, everything’s going to be all right.”

Six weeks later, Rowland was dead. When I heard the news, suddenly the scales fell from my eyes. Rowland was not giving a medical prognosis. He was speaking theologically. He had strong faith that, whatever happened to his sick, weak, pain-wracked body, God would watch over him. “Everything’s going to be all right.” If you don’t remember anything else I ever preached at Trinity Church, just remember this, and your faith will be top-notch:

EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT!

And now, in the words of the Old Scottish preacher: “If you do not arise instructed, may you at least awake refreshed.”

Happy 100th Birthday, Mom.

Amen.