Sermons
It Just Doesn't Get Any Clearer
November 20, 2011
Last Sunday after Pentecost
Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24; Ephesians 1:15-23; Matthew 25:31-46
The Reverend Javier A. Viera
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It just doesn’t get any clearer. If I was braver, and didn’t worry so much about what you’d think, I would have structured this service to flow differently. Tiffany’s reading of the gospel would have been followed by a long period of silent reflection. No sermon. No pious or clever exhortation. No dramatic rhetorical flair (which my daughters often accuse me of). Just silent reflection. And from that we would transition straight into our prayers. Again, what else is there to say? “As you did it unto one of the least of these you did to me.” “As you did not do it for one of the least of these, you did not do it for me.” It just doesn’t get any clearer.
Browsing through the bookstore recently, I came across a title sure to get my attention: The Last Testament—A Memoir by God. It’s hilarious and worth a browse when you need a light moment, but what has stayed with me is this line from the jacket: “Now, as the earth he has godded so magnificently draws to a Mayan-induced close, God ends his 1,400 year literary silence with his final masterpiece, The Last Testament.” The reason it stayed with me is because, if the author is correct about God’s literary silence, the lessons we read today are God’s last testament. What more need be said?
You heard Ngozi read earlier “I will seek out my sheep…I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak.” God makes abundantly clear God’s agenda. Then Jesus makes it abundantly clear that in the end our lives will be judged by our compassion toward others, by our ability and willingness to make God’s agenda our own. Our love of neighbor, he makes exceedingly clear is synonymous with our love of God. “‘When, Lord, did we see you hungry and not give you to eat?’ they will ask. ‘Whenever you did one of these things for someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’” How much clearer do we need it to be? Do you see why silent, personal reflection is probably the only appropriate response?
Certainly these passages don’t answer every question or ethical dilemma we’ll face. It doesn’t help us settle the challenges of modern city life—the panhandler, the roving musicians who burst into our subway cars, the people living in cardboard boxes on street corners around the city, the undocumented immigrants who make our lives possible, the endless need we’re surrounded by each day. But it does help us confront our indifference. It does unmask our too easily reached conclusion that there’s nothing we can do, a conclusion often hastily reached to assuage guilt or to mask apathy or a lack of genuine concern for others. It does expose the lie we tell ourselves that we’ll get to it another time—which we almost never do.
What is most disturbing to church people about this passage is that Jesus puts a face on the faceless. He gives the lump of blankets and towels in the doorway a name. By identifying himself with the persons we pass by and/or ignore, Jesus asks a very simple one word question of our claim to love God, to follow him, to want to serve him faithfully: Really?
When all is said and done it comes down to this: as you did it to one of these forgotten or overlooked, you did it to me. That’s the standard by which the content of our lives will judged. It’s startling to realize how much time and energy we devote to all other aspects of our lives, yet when all is said and done we cannot escape the fact that at the heart of the Christian faith is this very simple and clear cut claim—the content of our lives will be judged by our compassion toward others.
A few weeks ago Joyce Palevitz shared in her Commitment Minute that when she thought about the large-scale problems of the world she was overwhelmed. What could she possibly do? Any attempt felt like a drop of water in the ocean. But then she held up her commitment card and said “Here is something I can do.” Which is what we did last week as we walked up this center aisle and presented our individual financial commitments. Individual commitments became our collective effort to do something for the sake of God in the world—small, symbolic acts that some might argue are drops of water in the ocean. But it was something. Small, tangible heartfelt intentions responding to what God is asking of us.
Following our worship services that we gathered in Phillips Hall to package over 350 meals for people in our community and over 17,000 meals destined for an international location where the basic necessities of life are lacking. I can still picture young and old alike working, sweating, singing for the sake of God in the world. Our hall was filled with joy and laughter and hope because we were doing exactly what Jesus asked of us. The scene in Phillips Hall and in this sanctuary last week reminded me of his words: ‘I was hungry. What did you do? You gave me something to eat. I was thirsty. What did you do? You gave me something to drink.’ Tonight someone will walk into the Yorkville Common Pantry who is hungry and who has nowhere else to turn, but because of your efforts and generosity they will have a meal. “As you did unto one of the least of these, who are members of my family, you did it unto me.”
On the front of your bulletin are words from the great Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno, that I believe sum up well what we were attempting to do last week. “For faith is not the mere adherence of the intellect to an abstract principle; it is not the recognition of a theoretical truth, the process in which the will merely sets in motion our faculty of comprehension; faith is an act of the will — it is a movement of the soul towards a practical truth, towards a person, towards something that makes us not merely comprehend life, but that makes us live.”
But last week was last week, you might say. What about this week? As I look around this sanctuary I see so many people who are taking seriously these words of Jesus we’re exploring today. I see Ward Smith, who week in and week out gives himself to the young students at the Manhattan Comprehensive Night and Day School. These students, many recent immigrants to this country, are feverishly working to earn their high school diploma. Many of them face significant challenges. Ward has chosen to give an hour here and an hour there tutoring them in their coursework, and building meaningful relationships. Others of you have joined Ward in this effort. Yet, it’s been a while since someone at Christ Church has signed up to do so. I ask you, will one of you here today sign up to do so? Will you make your way downstairs and make the choice to make a difference in the lives of these young students?
I see Marsha Askins, who along with Hans Christensen and Walter Lamb cook the meals for the homeless men and women who come to Christ Church each Sunday night. Will you join them? Will you find your way to the Connections Center and sign up to volunteer for one of the evenings that are not yet claimed? I tell you, it will matter. It will matter more than you know. “I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me to drink.”
Today is Christ the King Sunday. The theme of this day, placed strategically at the end of the Christian year, is that of judgment; an occasion for thorough assessment of the content of our lives. We’re challenged to ask, “How have I lived? What have I done, not only for myself but for others?” We’re asked to take stock of our lives, of our commitments, of our priorities. Christ the King is depicted as Christ the Judge, an image that often inspires fear in those of us who occupy church pews. Fear is a visceral response, however, because we associate the judgment of Christ with our manner of judgment—how we judge ourselves and how we judge others. The difference is that God doesn’t judge the way we judge. When God judges, what God longs to do is to make right, to make whole, and to seek to heal the world. That’s why this image of divine judgment is placed before us on this final day of the Christian year; it’s an invitation to join in God’s judgment of the world. Will you join with God and with your brothers and sisters and seek to make the world right? Will you seek to make the world whole? Will you be a part of the healing of the world?
When those questions are asked, what else is there to be said? Very little. But there’s much to be done.
