St. Paul’s Church in
Bergen & Church of the Incarnation, Jersey City NJ
September 9, 2018
Year B, Proper 18:
The 16th Sunday after Pentecost
Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9,
22-23
Psalm 125
James 2:1-17
Mark 7:24-37
In a Strange Land
Over
the past few of weeks, a couple of events in my family have gotten me thinking
about the passage of time and the sometimes surprising shape of our lives, the
surprising shape of my life.
The
first event was celebratory: recently, my oldest niece went off to Florida to
begin her first year in college.
I
think I can speak for my whole family when I say we can hardly believe that
she’s already old enough for this big, momentous step. I know I still think of
her as a shy and sweet little girl, but the facts are the facts and she is now
a college freshman in a relatively faraway place facing the challenge and
excitement of learning and making friends, and making – we hope and believe -
good decisions.
The
other event was a sad one: last week, one of my aunts died after suffering with
cancer.
Maybe
because I hadn’t seen her much in recent years, I still think of her the way
I’m sure she’d like to be remembered: as young and healthy, welcoming me and
other relatives to big parties at her family’s suburban home – especially
welcoming us to their large backyard, which had what seemed like an almost
unimaginable luxury: an in-ground pool!
When
milestones like the first year of college or the death of someone you’ve known
your whole life come along, it gets you thinking about your own life – about
how much time has already passed and how much is left before God calls us home.
And,
at least for me, it gets me thinking about the shape of my life – the twists
and turns – the story that I could not have written, could never have imagined,
no matter how hard I tried.
For
example, about seventeen years ago or so, when I began to seriously consider
the possibility of becoming an Episcopal priest, when I finally worked up the
courage to make an appointment with Fr. Hamilton and say out loud what I had
been thinking and praying – back then I was absolutely, one hundred percent
sure that God was calling me to be a city priest.
After
all, while other family members had moved to the ‘burbs, I had stayed in the
city. This is what I knew. This is where I could really
contribute to the building of Christ’s church.
Although
it was certainly a nice place to visit, especially to take a dip in the pool, I
had no interest in the suburbs, no desire to minister to and with people living
what I imagined as their comfortable lives in big, beautiful homes on
tree-lined streets, some even with in-ground pools!
But,
as we know, God has a sense of humor and so when I was ordained a little more
than ten years ago and began looking for a full-time job, there were no full-time
positions in any of our city churches.
In
fact, there were few full-time positions anywhere, but there was one. It was a
particularly plum position, actually: to be the assistant – or, “curate” in
church-talk – at Grace Church in leafy, beautiful, affluent Madison.
Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I did not want to
go there.
Bishop
Beckwith tried to convince me that Madison was actually pretty diverse for a
suburb and there might be opportunities to work together with some city
churches and clergy.
I
wasn’t really sold.
But the fact was I
also really needed a job, so I went out to Madison and met with Grace’s then-rector
– Lauren Ackland – and met with some of the parishioners – and drove around the
town, and began to think, well, you know, this might be OK, for a while.
And,
so I took the job and Sue and I moved out to the suburbs. We found ourselves
living in a strange land.
The
truth is that I went to Madison wanting to do a good job but also with kind of
an attitude – or, maybe, a bunch of attitudes.
I
went into that place inclined to not particularly like people who I perceived
as having pretty easy, pretty comfortable lives.
It
was kind of the reverse of the bias we’re warned about in today’s passage from
the Letter of James. Rather than give them special treatment, I was quick to
judge and mistrust, quick to make unkind assumptions, about the people wearing
fine clothes.
I
think most of my attitude problem stemmed from the fact that I went to Madison
with my insecurities raging: I would be living and serving among many who had
attended much more prestigious schools than I had – people who were in some
sense “better” than me and my people – or, at least people who I thought would
think that they were better than me and my people.
I’ve
never been so wrong about anything in my life.
Despite
all of this negative stuff bubbling in my brain, we fell in love with each
other almost immediately.
In
this strange land, I discovered kind and incredibly generous people who loved
their families just as much as my people did – people who carried around
sorrows and fears and insecurities and bore deep scars – just like we all do.
But,
here’s what cemented my love for the people in the strange land of Madison:
A
month or two after I started working there, an older parishioner pulled me
aside and told me that his daughter – a little bit older than me - was in the
hospital and he asked if I could stop by and see her.
He
explained that she wasn’t much of a churchgoer but he thought that the two of
us would hit it off.
So,
I went to the hospital to visit this woman I had never met – the daughter of
parishioners I was just getting to know and love – all in what was still for me
a strange land.
Her
name was Elizabeth. And, after having been in remission, unfortunately and
tragically, her cancer had returned with a vengeance.
But,
her father had been right. We did hit it off, immediately.
In
fact, in what remains one of the most amazing experiences of my life, as I sat
by her bedside, we somehow managed to pack what felt like years of friendship
into what turned out to be the last few days of Elizabeth’s life.
And,
as I sat in the hospital room with her grieving parents and husband and
children, and as I mourned a close friend that I had just met a few days
earlier, I realized that we were truly brothers and sisters – and that I was
exactly where God wanted me, exactly where I was supposed to be, at exactly the
right time.
In
a strange land.
At
the start of today’s gospel lesson, we were given a little, easy to miss, but
quite important detail.
We’re
told that Jesus had gone to the region of Tyre.
This
is an important little detail because Tyre (which is in modern-day Lebanon) was
not a Jewish place. No, Jesus has left his homeland, left the people with whom
he was most comfortable, and has entered a strange land, filled with people he
might not understand and, at least at first, might not even trust.
Jesus enters a
strange land, understandably trying
to keep a low profile, perhaps trying
to get his bearings. And, at first, Jesus seems not sure that his Good News,
his healing power, is for absolutely everybody, Jew and Gentile alike.
Enter
the unnamed but oh-so-persistent and brave and, most of all, loving
Syro-Phoenician woman who begs Jesus to heal her daughter.
In
one of the most shocking scenes in the New Testament, in probably the least
Jesus-like moment in the Gospels, Jesus at first dismisses this desperate
woman, dismisses her in fact with what sounds like an insult:
“Let
the children be fed first for it is not fair to take the children’s food and
throw it to the dogs.”
A
less persistent – or a less desperate person – would have backed down, but not
this this woman. She goes right back at Jesus:
“Sir,
even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
It
seems that this woman’s persistent faith touches Jesus, opens up something
inside of him, helps him to recognize that his gift is for the whole world – and,
so, he heals the sick daughter.
In
a strange land.
Even
if you live in the same place you’ve lived your whole life, even if you haven’t
just sent a child off to college, even if you haven’t just buried someone you
love, today all of us find ourselves living in a strange land.
Our
neighborhoods are changing, with lots of new people – different kinds of people
– moving in.
Our
church is changing – with lots of new people – different kinds of people –
finding a spiritual home here.
Our
country is changing – with longstanding customs and norms being broken and
discarded on a daily basis.
I
don’t need to tell you that living in a strange land can be quite stressful.
As
we see every single day, living in a strange land can provoke our insecurities,
can stir up in us less than positive attitudes.
So,
my prayer is that we’ll remember that all of us - no matter where we live, no
matter what kind of clothes we wear, no matter how much or how little money we
have, no matter the color of our skin, no matter our political views:
All of us love our
people.
All of us carry
around sorrows and fears and all of us bear deep scars.
All of us need
healing.
All of us are
hungry for the Good News.
And, most of all,
all of us are loved, so deeply loved, by the God we know in and through Jesus
Christ.
Amen.
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