Wednesday, February 15, 2023

Homily: The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany [February 12, 2023] St. Alban's, Westwood


            Those of us who viewed this week’s State of the Union address saw a number of angry outbursts during the speech. Legislators repeatedly yelled at the president as he spoke. While these displays were disturbing, they were not necessarily surprising. Over the past decade or so much of what we hear and see in public behavior seems to be nothing more than unmitigated rage.

            The day after the speech, a longtime friend and I went for a bike ride and, during a break for coffee, talked both about the angry behavior and remembered the movie Network the great film from 1976. It was written by Paddy Chayefsky, and it satirized the world of television. You may remember the signal moment from that film when newscaster Howard Beale, played to perfection by Peter Finch, goes on national television and says:

 

All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING . . .My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!' 

 

Now that’s a bracing speech, but what happens next is both hilarious and scary: apartment house windows open, and people lean their heads out over their fire escapes and yell in unison: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!”

In 1976 this scene became what we would later come to call a meme, and “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” caught on as a catch phrase. We all thought it satirical and bizarre. Who knew that, 47 years, later, uncontrolled rage would become the dominant mode of our public life?

This ritualized expression of rage fit the moment perfectly. The 1970s were the time of self-actualization and “getting in touch with your feelings”. It became a truism of the time that anger was, in fact, a good thing and that the church had squelched our emotions by insisting that we all try to be nice at all times. I was in seminary in the early ‘70s and found myself in quite a few encounter groups. It was almost a matter of faith in those days that expressing your anger was the first step on the road to personal and emotional authenticity.

Forty-odd years later, it appears that even if authenticity is a virtue, we might now be experiencing too much of a good thing. Everybody in this society seems to be either enraged, affronted, or aggrieved. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” is no longer a satirical catch phrase. It is the slogan of the 21st century: congressional outbursts; mass shootings; driving cars into parades. The list is depressing and endless.

Our Gospel for this morning [Matthew 5: 21-37] continues our ongoing engagement of the Sermon on the Mount and begins with Jesus’s remarks on anger. He also discusses adultery and divorce in this section, but the anger portion is the largest, and in it he says essentially three things: first, “if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment”; second, “when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift”; and third, “come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him.” 

In other words: don’t be angry, be reconciled to your sibling, and come to terms with your adversary. These are counsels of moderation. In the past decades they have been heard as a kind of schoolmarmish raining on our collective emotional parade. In the light of both September 11, 2001 and January 6, 2021 they seem like exceedingly good advice.

I’ve spent much of the last month reading Cormac McCarthy’s pair of new novels, The Passenger and Stella Maris. The plots are too complicated to go into here, but near the end of the second book a character discusses the connection between grief and anger and says this:

I know that you can make a good case that all of human sorrow is grounded in injustice. And that sorrow is what is left when rage is expended and found to be impotent. [Cormac McCarthy, Stella Maris, p. 164]

When trying to understand anger, it is helpful to explore the connection between sorrow and rage. Indeed, if you remember the old “feelings wheel”, another relic of the late 20th century, you’ll know that anger and sorrow were always placed very close to each other. One of the things I learned over years in therapy was how my own anger was often an expression of grief over loss—loss of a person, loss of control, loss of something I could not name. My anger did not come out of the blue. It came out as an expression of something I could not adequately give words to, much less understand.

Now it doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to connect all of the public expressions of anger we see in the world today to what might be underlying experiences of grief. Some are angry that they have lost power, status, and prestige. Others are angry that they continue to be victimized by forces beyond their control. Still others lament the predictable yet tragic costs of being alive—the death of loved ones, the decline in one’s physical faculties, the simple fragility of being human. It is easier—and more socially acceptable, particularly for men—to get angry than to cry. Sorrow often presents itself as rage.

When Jesus tells us that “if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment”, I don’t think he is telling us not to feel or experience anger. Just as in last week’s Gospel he called us to a “higher righteousness”, I believe that today his call is to a deeper acknowledgment of what we actually feel. His two injunctions—to leave our gift at the altar and to make peace before we take our sibling to court—these two warnings ask that we stop in our tracks and think about what we are doing.

It won’t come as a surprise when I say that reflection and introspection are not much on display these days. As our culture speeds up, we tend more and more to act before we think. You may have seen the video and followed the story of the man in the black Tesla who terrorized other motorists on L.A.freeways earlier this year. In stop and go traffic he would get out of his car and bash other vehicles with a pipe. After he was arrested it became known that he has a long history of interpersonal violence. [“Inside a Tesla driver’s alleged ‘reign of terror’ on L.A. freeways and violent past”, Los Angeles Times, February 1, 2023] The striking thing about all the accounts is the way he would go from 0 to 120 on the rage meter instantly and begin hitting people without even thinking about it. I think many of us behave similarly at the computer keyboard, or indeed around the house; perhaps not physically, but certainly verbally and attitudinally. Our first, and easiest response to something which challenges us is to get angry. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” has become our default response to almost everything.

When Jesus tells us to drop our offering and be reconciled, or to think twice about taking our neighbor to court, he is not asking that we deny whatever righteous feelings of anger we might possess. There is a real difference between righteous anger and reactive rage. We are always justifiably outraged by oppression, injustice, and violence. Jesus is asking only that we become more self-aware and try to understand what our anger is really about. Jesus is countercultural in many ways, but perhaps mostly so because he really knew who he was. He knew, accepted, and loved himself and was therefore able to know, accept, and love others. In today’s teaching to his followers—not only those around him on the mountain but you and me, here today—he asks simply that we ask ourselves what it really is we’re feeling when we explode in rage. Before you grab that pipe or hit send on that social media post, think about what is really going on with you. Is it really prophetic anger, or is it a kneejerk expression that disguises grief over a loss you cannot name?

“I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” If you do remember the movie Network, you’ll also remember that Howard Beale’s rage finally drives him insane. That’s what happens when our world inside is not aligned with what is happening around us. Before we express our anger, let’s stop and think what it might really be about. In so doing we will be taking a step in the direction of that personal authenticity and higher righteousness that Jesus exemplified and asks that we do our best to live into as well. Amen. 

 

Sunday, February 5, 2023

Homily: The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany [February 5, 2023] St. John Chrysostom, Rancho Santa Margarita


            A little self-introduction is probably in order. I’m Gary Hall, a priest for over 46 years in this diocese and elsewhere. I retired in 2016 as dean of Washington National Cathedral, and I’ve also served in my time as seminary dean, parish priest, and English teacher, and my wife Kathy has been with me every step of the way. I’m a longtime friend of our bishop and your former vicar, John Taylor, and I’m a relatively new colleague of Linda Allport, who shares leadership with me at Bloy House, the diocesan theological school. My wife Kathy and I are happy to be with you this morning, and I know you eagerly await the arrival of your interim vicar in a few weeks.

            You at St. John’s begin a leadership transition right in the middle of the season of Epiphany, a time when the church celebrates and reflects on how we manifest God in the world. The Greek word epiphany literally means “manifestation”. The season observes the manifestation of God’s glory first in Jesus, then in the church, then in the world, then in us. It seems we cannot talk about God’s glory without finally mentioning ourselves.

            Today’s Gospel [Matthew 5: 13-20] begins with a commonly misunderstood saying from Jesus. “You are the salt of the earth.” Now I don’t know about your family, but in mine we used the phrase “salt of the earth” to describe people who were, well, pretty average, or at least not special. “She’s the salt of the earth” was probably not a fashion-forward compliment back in the day.

            But when, in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tells his companions they are the “salt of the earth” he is saying almost exactly the opposite of our common understanding of that phrase:

You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot. 

             It’s clear, when you listen closely, that Jesus uses salt to denote something that gives flavor to the otherwise dull foodstuff we might apply it to. In his 2003 bestseller Salt, the author Mark Kurlansky tells a fascinating tale of the role that salt has played in human society. It was prized not only for its savor but also its use as a preservative. And in ancient Israel salt even had a religious role. As Kurlansky explains, 

 

Salt was to the ancient Hebrews, and still is to modern Jews, the symbol of the eternal nature of God’s covenant with Israel . . . Loyalty and friendship are sealed with salt because its essence does not change. [Mark Kurlansky,Salt, p. 6]

 

            When Jesus describes his followers as “salt of the earth” he therefore must mean that they are both precious and special. Just as salt is necessary for human life, Jesus’s companions are vital to the life of the world.

            The same holds for his next comparison:

You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. 

            Those of us of a certain age remember Ronald Reagan’s use of the phrase “city on a hill” to describe the United States. It is a term he borrowed from the 17th century Puritan John Winthrop, who in turn took it from this Gospel. When Jesus tells us that we are the “light of the world”, he means that our job is to light the world up just as God has done both in creation and in the life and ministry of Jesus. 

            Okay; these are interesting comparisons. What do they mean for you and me? 

            While it is true that Jesus is concerned with each of us as individuals, he also cares deeply about the group that he has gathered around him. When Jesus addresses the crowd in this passage, he uses the word “you” in its plural form. So yes, we individually and collectively are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Salt without savor is useless. Lamps under bushels don’t shed much light.

            Why do these distinctions matter? For a couple of reasons.

            When we say that God created us in God’s own image, we mean that each human being represents some unique aspect of the divine. When we say that human beings are precious, we also mean that both together and separately we show forth some aspect of God that is revealed nowhere else. One of the problems we have in the church is that we tend, in Anglicanism’s greatest theologian Richard Hooker’s words, to “overpraise the sacred”. It’s not just that the Bible and church and the sacraments are holy. It’s also that we ourselves are holy. We are holy because God is holy. We are holy because, each and together, we embody some aspect of God.

            What Jesus is saying today, then, has real implications for us both separately and as a community. We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. Our task, as followers of Jesus, is to claim and live out that aspect of the divine image that we alone embody as our unique contribution to God’s work in the world. Your task, as a follower of Jesus, is to know and accept yourself in all your wonderful particularity. God doesn’t need you to try to be someone else. God needs you to be who you are.

            If you think I am overstating the case here, hear again two things Jesus says at the end of today’s Gospel passage:

 

First,

 

Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. 

And,

For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” 

            Remember a while back I quoted the author of Salt saying that salt was sacred to ancient Hebrews because it symbolized “the eternal nature of God’s covenant with Israel”.  Accepting our nature as both salt and light is not just good lifestyle advice. Accepting our nature as both salt and light is, in some sense, our sacred duty. The people who challenged Jesus, the “scribes and Pharisees” in Matthew’s language, were religious conformists. They represented that unfortunate tendency we all have to make people march in religious lock step. They were scandalized by Jesus because he and his companions lived free lives which challenged that conformity and looked suspiciously like a violation of Jewish law.

            But what Jesus shows here is that nonconformity, living not in imitation of others but out of what Thomas Merton called one’s “true self” is in fact the highest kind of faithfulness there is. Living this way is actually a fulfillment of, not a deviation from, God’s commandments. That’s why Jesus says that we who follow him are called to a higher righteousness. It’s easy to follow a rule book. It’s harder to live authentically. But living and acting out of one’s true and deepest identity are what following Jesus is all about.

            This is true for you and me and all of us who seek to follow Jesus. We are each called to know, accept, and love ourselves as we are, and to use the actual gifts we have to embody our true selves as we engage our families, our work, our church and our world. And what is true for us individually is also true for us as a church community. God doesn’t need St. John Chrysostom to look and act like any other Episcopal church. God needs this congregation to live into its real, beloved identity as it is—with all its joys and gifts, with all its quirks and complications.

            You all are now at the beginning of a transition in clergy leadership. These moments can be fraught, because so much of a congregation’s identity can be caught up in the identity of its leader. One of the drawbacks of our tradition is that we can be a bit “priest-centric”. As you begin this interim time between vicars, remember Jesus’s words to his companions. You are the salt of the earth, the light of the world. You have something as a church to offer that no other church has. Your job in these months is to talk and listen to and love each other, to rediscover what it is that makes you both salty and illuminating, and to imagine how you might bring savor and light to the people both inside and outside these walls.

            This time may seem like a bummer, but it is really sacred time. Use it to discover again what makes you unique. In doing so, you will be fulfilling God’s purpose and stepping up to that higher righteousness that Jesus both offers and demands of those of us who follow him. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world. Accept it. Claim it. Live it. And, most of all, enjoy the discoveries you’ll make on this wild and sacred ride. Amen.