Sermons
To Bind and Unbind
Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Lent, March 29, 2020
Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45; Psalm 130
Sermon texts: Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.” Ezekiel 37:5-6
Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.” John 11:44
George Packer, author and political commentator, wrote a book a few years ago entitled The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America. It is a look at America from 1978 to 2012, tracing the mortgage crisis, the decline of manufacturing work, and the increasing influence of money on politics. Though told through the journalistic device of interviews with a wide variety of people from all walks of life, the author’s argument can be summarized simply,: Over the past 30 years, American democratic values have been undermined by the powerful lure of unregulated capitalism. Packer believes the seismic shift in political and economic life, which has left the social contract in tatters, will inevitably mean that members of an increasingly isolated American society will find themselves alone, having to "improvise their own destinies, plot their own stories of success and salvation.”
Hmmm, sounds prophetic: Members of an increasingly isolated American society will find themselves alone, having to "improvise their own destinies, plot their own stories of success and salvation.”
As if our dispersed sheltering in place is an actual enactment of increasing isolation in America and perhaps the world. Over the last thirty days, perhaps we are witnessing e a real time dissolution of the global framework and social fabric.
It is a surreal spectacle. something out of an Old Testament prophet, like the vision of the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel.
The Lord asked Ezekiel, Mortal, can these bones live?
Lord, you know, replied the prophet.
Meaning, I don’t. We don’t. We don’t know what will happen in the next few weeks, months and year. We have entered a period of profound uncertainty, and that heightens justified fears and dark clouds of anxiety. If Packer is right, and our country has already lost a great deal of social cohesion, then we are in for a rough ride. I don’t know if these bones will live, if the body politic and social contract, frayed already, will knit itself back together, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, standing, until God breathes new life into it.
I don’t know when this pandemic will end, when we can get back to work, when we see each other in person, shake hands, kiss. The kiss of peace—not the nod at a polite distance.
I don’t know. Nobody knows.
But I do know this. This is the last week of Lent. Next Sunday is Palm Sunday. and then Holy Week and the Passion of Christ. I am pretty sure that in the next week or two, the news will be be bad. The rate of infection and hospitalization is predicted to peak. There will be tragedies and losses; alarming stories in the headlines. People will be tempted to despair. Any hosannas will be premature and not yet justified by truth on the ground.
But as a person of faith, as a Christian in this season of Lent and Holy week, I am going to look on these coming two weeks as a sort of stations of the cross. A via dolorosa.
Now the way of suffering is itself simply sad and tragic unless redeemed for good. Unless Easter Sunday follow Good Friday, Friday is not good.
But we are an Easter people. we know, deep in our scattered bones that Easter will come. Maybe not on April 12, 2020. But Easter will come. Because it came in the year of our Lord 33, when he rose from the dead, it will come to us, in our time. We know from then what God will bring about: redemption and new life. Yes, these bones will live.
And with that faith, are we not at least preparing for the possibility of a new binding of community, a new communion of the faithful? David Brooks calls those who work to knit together our social fabric Weavers—and he sees this as a process always happening, always acting against the entropy and class division of our late stage capitalism.
This surely is the moral call of all people of good will and faith at this time. To knit back together the frayed social fabric especially in this season of dis-ease, dispersal, diaspora. One day we will come back together.
Perhaps the effect of actual distancing may help us bind back together as a people, for we are all in this together. The most heroic perhaps, aside from the always acknowledged medical workers are the everyday heroes of the checkout counter, the mail, the warehouse, the sanitation workers. those who cannot work remotely may be those who hold us together, who deliver the food to the shut in.
And we, each in our own place, reaching out, calling, sending notes, making drawings—I am talking to you children. We see this happening in a thousand and a million ways across the country and around the world. Human resilience, faith, compassion rising up.
And if these bones can live—this body bind back together, will we also find new life, new energy, new freedom to serve—not just freedom to self-serve?
Jesus revives his friend Lazarus in the famous story from the gospel according to John. As always the Jesus of John’s gospel is in control—he will even remain calm on the cross. He knows Lazarus has not passed into the far borne of death, but only its antechamber; he knows the Father is holding him in suspended life, waiting for the Son to arrive and reveal that he is resurrection and he is life.
And yet Jesus weeps. His heart is deeply touched. Not by the apparent death of lazarus—though that is what the crowd watching think—but by the pathos of being human, the pathos of loss. He understands now—in a way that perhaps God as purely divine does not share—the human sense of the fragility of life, the pain of losing a loved one, the feeling of powerlessness. He is moved by these mortals. He wept then. He weeps now.
And he acts, then and now. Roll away the stone, he commanded. Come out of there—he called to Lazarus. And just as the stone in front of Jesus tomb was rolled away, and just as Jesus emerged, so did Lazarus. And so will we.
I am Resurrection and I am Life, Jesus told Martha. Do you believe that?
believe you are the Messiah, the one coming into the world, she replied.
I believe that. I believe that God is always coming into the world, that God is with us, now and for ever. I believe that no matter how hard the road will be, how prolonged the suffering and sacrifice, God will lead us up even from the depths of hell. God will lead us from the place where we are lost, alone, isolated, and afraid. That no matter how dark the night, the day will dawn, the stone will be rolled away, we will emerge into the light of day.
Unbind him and let him go, Jesus told the crowd.
Unbind him, Jesus prayed to the Father, from darkness and isolation, from forced separation, from the grip of fear, from the cave of death.
Let him go—back to his family and fields, back to his life, back to the world.
Unbind us too, O Lord, and let us go, back to our lives, back to the world,
And when we do—for that day will come—will we remember to make the world a better place? to embrace separated friends, and forgive our enemies? To work to restore, heal, bind all the world—and not just our own small part?
“The only way to fight the plague is with decency,” Camus writes in The Plague, a sudden bestseller.
Let us bind our world with love and unbind our souls for service.
In Christ’s name, Amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins, Rector
Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Lent, March 29, 2020
Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45; Psalm 130
Sermon texts: Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.” Ezekiel 37:5-6
Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.” John 11:44
George Packer, author and political commentator, wrote a book a few years ago entitled The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America. It is a look at America from 1978 to 2012, tracing the mortgage crisis, the decline of manufacturing work, and the increasing influence of money on politics. Though told through the journalistic device of interviews with a wide variety of people from all walks of life, the author’s argument can be summarized simply,: Over the past 30 years, American democratic values have been undermined by the powerful lure of unregulated capitalism. Packer believes the seismic shift in political and economic life, which has left the social contract in tatters, will inevitably mean that members of an increasingly isolated American society will find themselves alone, having to "improvise their own destinies, plot their own stories of success and salvation.”
Hmmm, sounds prophetic: Members of an increasingly isolated American society will find themselves alone, having to "improvise their own destinies, plot their own stories of success and salvation.”
As if our dispersed sheltering in place is an actual enactment of increasing isolation in America and perhaps the world. Over the last thirty days, perhaps we are witnessing e a real time dissolution of the global framework and social fabric.
It is a surreal spectacle. something out of an Old Testament prophet, like the vision of the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel.
The Lord asked Ezekiel, Mortal, can these bones live?
Lord, you know, replied the prophet.
Meaning, I don’t. We don’t. We don’t know what will happen in the next few weeks, months and year. We have entered a period of profound uncertainty, and that heightens justified fears and dark clouds of anxiety. If Packer is right, and our country has already lost a great deal of social cohesion, then we are in for a rough ride. I don’t know if these bones will live, if the body politic and social contract, frayed already, will knit itself back together, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, standing, until God breathes new life into it.
I don’t know when this pandemic will end, when we can get back to work, when we see each other in person, shake hands, kiss. The kiss of peace—not the nod at a polite distance.
I don’t know. Nobody knows.
But I do know this. This is the last week of Lent. Next Sunday is Palm Sunday. and then Holy Week and the Passion of Christ. I am pretty sure that in the next week or two, the news will be be bad. The rate of infection and hospitalization is predicted to peak. There will be tragedies and losses; alarming stories in the headlines. People will be tempted to despair. Any hosannas will be premature and not yet justified by truth on the ground.
But as a person of faith, as a Christian in this season of Lent and Holy week, I am going to look on these coming two weeks as a sort of stations of the cross. A via dolorosa.
Now the way of suffering is itself simply sad and tragic unless redeemed for good. Unless Easter Sunday follow Good Friday, Friday is not good.
But we are an Easter people. we know, deep in our scattered bones that Easter will come. Maybe not on April 12, 2020. But Easter will come. Because it came in the year of our Lord 33, when he rose from the dead, it will come to us, in our time. We know from then what God will bring about: redemption and new life. Yes, these bones will live.
And with that faith, are we not at least preparing for the possibility of a new binding of community, a new communion of the faithful? David Brooks calls those who work to knit together our social fabric Weavers—and he sees this as a process always happening, always acting against the entropy and class division of our late stage capitalism.
This surely is the moral call of all people of good will and faith at this time. To knit back together the frayed social fabric especially in this season of dis-ease, dispersal, diaspora. One day we will come back together.
Perhaps the effect of actual distancing may help us bind back together as a people, for we are all in this together. The most heroic perhaps, aside from the always acknowledged medical workers are the everyday heroes of the checkout counter, the mail, the warehouse, the sanitation workers. those who cannot work remotely may be those who hold us together, who deliver the food to the shut in.
And we, each in our own place, reaching out, calling, sending notes, making drawings—I am talking to you children. We see this happening in a thousand and a million ways across the country and around the world. Human resilience, faith, compassion rising up.
And if these bones can live—this body bind back together, will we also find new life, new energy, new freedom to serve—not just freedom to self-serve?
Jesus revives his friend Lazarus in the famous story from the gospel according to John. As always the Jesus of John’s gospel is in control—he will even remain calm on the cross. He knows Lazarus has not passed into the far borne of death, but only its antechamber; he knows the Father is holding him in suspended life, waiting for the Son to arrive and reveal that he is resurrection and he is life.
And yet Jesus weeps. His heart is deeply touched. Not by the apparent death of lazarus—though that is what the crowd watching think—but by the pathos of being human, the pathos of loss. He understands now—in a way that perhaps God as purely divine does not share—the human sense of the fragility of life, the pain of losing a loved one, the feeling of powerlessness. He is moved by these mortals. He wept then. He weeps now.
And he acts, then and now. Roll away the stone, he commanded. Come out of there—he called to Lazarus. And just as the stone in front of Jesus tomb was rolled away, and just as Jesus emerged, so did Lazarus. And so will we.
I am Resurrection and I am Life, Jesus told Martha. Do you believe that?
believe you are the Messiah, the one coming into the world, she replied.
I believe that. I believe that God is always coming into the world, that God is with us, now and for ever. I believe that no matter how hard the road will be, how prolonged the suffering and sacrifice, God will lead us up even from the depths of hell. God will lead us from the place where we are lost, alone, isolated, and afraid. That no matter how dark the night, the day will dawn, the stone will be rolled away, we will emerge into the light of day.
Unbind him and let him go, Jesus told the crowd.
Unbind him, Jesus prayed to the Father, from darkness and isolation, from forced separation, from the grip of fear, from the cave of death.
Let him go—back to his family and fields, back to his life, back to the world.
Unbind us too, O Lord, and let us go, back to our lives, back to the world,
And when we do—for that day will come—will we remember to make the world a better place? to embrace separated friends, and forgive our enemies? To work to restore, heal, bind all the world—and not just our own small part?
“The only way to fight the plague is with decency,” Camus writes in The Plague, a sudden bestseller.
Let us bind our world with love and unbind our souls for service.
In Christ’s name, Amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins, Rector
Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
Now I See
Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent, March 23, 2020
Sermon text: He said to them, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.”
You ever get a song stuck in your head? Of course you do. Do you ever the blame the person who put it there? Sometimes. So I take responsibility if this sticks in yours; I will just quote the first line. I can see clearly now the rain is gone. A Johnny Nash song, covered memorably by Jimmy Cliff.
It is a hopeful song. Gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day—once these obstacles in my way are clear— now that the clouds are gone.
Too soon for that. The clouds are thick today and getting thicker. The rain is heavy—feels like a flood of bad news. The coronavirus sweeping through, the measures taken to prevent it, the sharp increase of cases, the increasing severity of restrictions. Here we are, each in our home, except for those deemed essential, the medical workers, the food deliverers, the folks who have to go out into the rain.
And even for those who are staying indoors—it feels already a bit claustrophobic. The staycation ideal of time and family and leisure is not quite the reality of life under a cloud of worry, fear, economic downturn, uncertainty. This anxious feeling of flying blind into an unknown future. The most trusted authorities are ones who admit we aren’t sure if this all will work but here is our best chance. Let’s really work together to stop the spread.
Let’s do that. Let’s listen and do our best. Lets pray and connect. Let’s take care of the most vulnerable. Let’s see what silver linings can be found and what lemonade can be made.
The Bible is a good place to start looking. In particular, the gospels. For instance the story of the blind beggar being given sight in this morning’s reading from John chapter 9.
A couple of things probably pop out as you read or hear it. One of things that popped out for me is the idea of the disciples that the man’s affliction is punishment for his own sin or that of his parents. As if every affliction must be a punishment of sin meted out by a wrathful God, the only question being who is at fault. Jesus says neither the man’s sins nor those of his parents caused his blindness. Rather—and this must sound odd to our ears—“he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” As if natural affliction is—or at least might be— an occasion for God’s mercy.
Well, suppose it is so. How then is this natural affliction of a novel coronavirus sweeping through the world an occasion for God’s mercy?
How might God’s works be revealed in this pandemic?
Good question, one I am not yet prepared to answer. But which I will be thinking and praying about—especially if there is a way I might be an agent of God’s works in some small way.
Another part of this story that jumped out at me in light of this crisis is Jesus’ use of dirt and spit to make a poultice for the blind man’s eyes. Earth and water. Stuff of the natural world, molded by hand and guided by knowledge—combined with faith and the power and purpose of God. That sounds like a recipe for miracles, only ones we might see worked out in science and medicine in different ways. Including the spit—the DNA, the cheek swab, the gene splicer, the medicine and the vaccine. Not yet but—let us pray and pass the powder—soon.
Jesus can do miracles. And so can we—if we work together as the body of Christ.
I understand that Jesus saves—not me. But I can help spread the good news. I can bring food to the hungry, hope for those in despair. I can lift a spirit and get groceries for those confined at home.
And so can you. Even more, so can we. if we work together. If we practice self care and self sacrifice—understanding the need to be careful and prudent, and understanding the ned to chip and help. It is not only the medical profession who is helping, it is all those who go to work on the front lines, at the grocery store, warehouse, post office. Keeping the world working. Taking care of the children at home. Taking care of the elders at home. Taking care of each other.
I was blind but now I see—as the great hymn has it—written by John Newton, a former slave trader captain on conversion to Christian faith. I see now what is wrong and what is right, what is true and what a lie. I see clearly now that the strong must fight on behalf of the weak, not rule over them. I see that we are in this together. That no one wins if any lose. That all that lives is kin and unfathomably, indissolubly one—as Jonathan Daniels once said. This has become undeniably clear in this crisis. I hope we remember after it has passed.
After the man healed of his blindness had been questioned and reviled by the authorities he once again encountered Jesus. He asked “Do you believe in the Son of Man”—that is, the Messiah. “And who is he?” he responded. You have seen him, Jesus said, the one speaking to you is he. He said Lord I believe—and he worshipped.
Where have you seen Jesus? where have you seen God at work? Do you believe in the Son of Man? Do you believe that God is at work in the world?
You may wonder, where, and when. I certainly cannot tell you. But Jesus has given the answer. He said to the man—and he is speaking still to us—You have seen him and the one speaking to you is he.
And if you have heard him and believe, then you are like the blind man who now can see. If you have heard these words and yet do not see or believe, well, perhaps you are still blind and need to pray for the day to come, for the clouds to roll away, for the darkness to lift, for your heart to open and for faith to take seed and flower. But if you say, I do see, I see what is true and real, I see the natural cause and effect—but I do not see God’s hand at work, God’s mercy even in the midst of affliction, well, as Jesus told the Pharisees—your sin remains. And by sin, Jesus does not mean some criminal act or blasphemous thought word or deed. He simply means that which keeps you from the knowledge and love and peace of God. You cannot see that the kingdom of heaven is at hand—even in the midst of this extraordinary painful time.
And so I pray not only for the passing of this great affliction, for the healing of this disease, but for the opening of our eyes and the warming of our hearts in love of God and neighbor. And maybe for a realization that we can do big things together—and climate change would be a good next crisis to take on. and for the understanding that we are all one—that we live and die together. Let us choose life. Let us see clearly now.
In Christ’s name, Amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins, Rector
Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent, March 23, 2020
Sermon text: He said to them, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.”
You ever get a song stuck in your head? Of course you do. Do you ever the blame the person who put it there? Sometimes. So I take responsibility if this sticks in yours; I will just quote the first line. I can see clearly now the rain is gone. A Johnny Nash song, covered memorably by Jimmy Cliff.
It is a hopeful song. Gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day—once these obstacles in my way are clear— now that the clouds are gone.
Too soon for that. The clouds are thick today and getting thicker. The rain is heavy—feels like a flood of bad news. The coronavirus sweeping through, the measures taken to prevent it, the sharp increase of cases, the increasing severity of restrictions. Here we are, each in our home, except for those deemed essential, the medical workers, the food deliverers, the folks who have to go out into the rain.
And even for those who are staying indoors—it feels already a bit claustrophobic. The staycation ideal of time and family and leisure is not quite the reality of life under a cloud of worry, fear, economic downturn, uncertainty. This anxious feeling of flying blind into an unknown future. The most trusted authorities are ones who admit we aren’t sure if this all will work but here is our best chance. Let’s really work together to stop the spread.
Let’s do that. Let’s listen and do our best. Lets pray and connect. Let’s take care of the most vulnerable. Let’s see what silver linings can be found and what lemonade can be made.
The Bible is a good place to start looking. In particular, the gospels. For instance the story of the blind beggar being given sight in this morning’s reading from John chapter 9.
A couple of things probably pop out as you read or hear it. One of things that popped out for me is the idea of the disciples that the man’s affliction is punishment for his own sin or that of his parents. As if every affliction must be a punishment of sin meted out by a wrathful God, the only question being who is at fault. Jesus says neither the man’s sins nor those of his parents caused his blindness. Rather—and this must sound odd to our ears—“he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” As if natural affliction is—or at least might be— an occasion for God’s mercy.
Well, suppose it is so. How then is this natural affliction of a novel coronavirus sweeping through the world an occasion for God’s mercy?
How might God’s works be revealed in this pandemic?
Good question, one I am not yet prepared to answer. But which I will be thinking and praying about—especially if there is a way I might be an agent of God’s works in some small way.
Another part of this story that jumped out at me in light of this crisis is Jesus’ use of dirt and spit to make a poultice for the blind man’s eyes. Earth and water. Stuff of the natural world, molded by hand and guided by knowledge—combined with faith and the power and purpose of God. That sounds like a recipe for miracles, only ones we might see worked out in science and medicine in different ways. Including the spit—the DNA, the cheek swab, the gene splicer, the medicine and the vaccine. Not yet but—let us pray and pass the powder—soon.
Jesus can do miracles. And so can we—if we work together as the body of Christ.
I understand that Jesus saves—not me. But I can help spread the good news. I can bring food to the hungry, hope for those in despair. I can lift a spirit and get groceries for those confined at home.
And so can you. Even more, so can we. if we work together. If we practice self care and self sacrifice—understanding the need to be careful and prudent, and understanding the ned to chip and help. It is not only the medical profession who is helping, it is all those who go to work on the front lines, at the grocery store, warehouse, post office. Keeping the world working. Taking care of the children at home. Taking care of the elders at home. Taking care of each other.
I was blind but now I see—as the great hymn has it—written by John Newton, a former slave trader captain on conversion to Christian faith. I see now what is wrong and what is right, what is true and what a lie. I see clearly now that the strong must fight on behalf of the weak, not rule over them. I see that we are in this together. That no one wins if any lose. That all that lives is kin and unfathomably, indissolubly one—as Jonathan Daniels once said. This has become undeniably clear in this crisis. I hope we remember after it has passed.
After the man healed of his blindness had been questioned and reviled by the authorities he once again encountered Jesus. He asked “Do you believe in the Son of Man”—that is, the Messiah. “And who is he?” he responded. You have seen him, Jesus said, the one speaking to you is he. He said Lord I believe—and he worshipped.
Where have you seen Jesus? where have you seen God at work? Do you believe in the Son of Man? Do you believe that God is at work in the world?
You may wonder, where, and when. I certainly cannot tell you. But Jesus has given the answer. He said to the man—and he is speaking still to us—You have seen him and the one speaking to you is he.
And if you have heard him and believe, then you are like the blind man who now can see. If you have heard these words and yet do not see or believe, well, perhaps you are still blind and need to pray for the day to come, for the clouds to roll away, for the darkness to lift, for your heart to open and for faith to take seed and flower. But if you say, I do see, I see what is true and real, I see the natural cause and effect—but I do not see God’s hand at work, God’s mercy even in the midst of affliction, well, as Jesus told the Pharisees—your sin remains. And by sin, Jesus does not mean some criminal act or blasphemous thought word or deed. He simply means that which keeps you from the knowledge and love and peace of God. You cannot see that the kingdom of heaven is at hand—even in the midst of this extraordinary painful time.
And so I pray not only for the passing of this great affliction, for the healing of this disease, but for the opening of our eyes and the warming of our hearts in love of God and neighbor. And maybe for a realization that we can do big things together—and climate change would be a good next crisis to take on. and for the understanding that we are all one—that we live and die together. Let us choose life. Let us see clearly now.
In Christ’s name, Amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins, Rector
Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS TOGETHER
a sermon responding to the coronavirus pandemic
Sermon for the Third Sunday of Lent, March 15, 2020
Readings: Exodus 17;1-7; Psalm 95; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42
Sermon text: Since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. Romans 5:1-4
If Paul is right, and I believe he is, suffering borne with the hope of eventually sharing the glory of God produces endurance—resilience, grit, determination—and endurance produces character—resolute and resilient, essentially undefeated no matter what happens, the kind of person we saw in Nelson Mandela, 27 years in prison, unbowed, always hopeful, always willing to reconcile and move on, the kind of hope portrayed in the current movie A Hidden Life about an Austrian farmer who defied the Nazi regime and suffered death for it. Such character produces hope, even hope against hope when martyrdom is the result.
That hope will not disappoint, Paul says, because of the love of God that the holy Spirit has poured into our heart. God’s love is in our heart—in our being—through the two way stream of life—the water and the fire of the Holy Spirit and our spirit. Do not think that this love of God is some wishful, whimsical longing, a hope colliding against the brute reality of death. That hope does not disappoint because God’s love is power, the power of resurrection. That hope does not disappoint because God’s love is light, the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
My beloved friends, the darkness of our day, the fear around the COVID-19 coronavirus will not triumph over us. On the contrary, if we have faith, courage, prudence and resolve, if we are creative, compassionate, patient and good-humored, we will emerge a stronger people and build a stronger world.
But that is a big if.
The temptation will be to isolate, scapegoat, seek safety and self-preservation over the common good and the common well-being. We must not let that happen.
The temptation will be to ignore the warnings by those with little risk, while those at high risk suffer the consequences of their irresponsibility.
The temptation will be to point the finger and trade the blame, and close the fist to hold on to what we have and defend against all threats.
We must resist these temptations. And from I have seen in these past two weeks we will. I have seen local, ecclesial, state and, somewhat belatedly, national leadership step up and issue strong directives about slowing the spread, flattening the curve. Preparations and supplies and money are coming on line. There will be chaos but I think we will not see scenes of terrible tragedy. I hope not—but this is a new thing we are facing, the first pandemic since the Spanish influenza of 1918. we will see if we have gotten better at understanding what the disease is—and that we surely have, in 1918 there was no understanding of how the disease spread, viruses were not discovered and studied until the 1930s. We have learned from epidemics like recent outbreaks of ebola and SARS how to isolate populations and contain the disease. This is different as it is less lethal and more subtle in its symptoms. We are responding but the cat is out of the bag. We must now learn how to improve our sanitation—as we have through many an outbreak of cholera—wash hands, use disinfectant and with an airborne virus keep social distance, contain coughing and sneezing, and otherwise be careful. As with many an experience of smallpox and tuberculosis we understand the need to quarantine and protect the medical workers. We will be careful. It will not always work. But it will help.
These are hopes—not founded on faith in God but faith in human beings acting rationally, I have some hope in that area. We will see if I am overly optimistic.
Meanwhile we will be creative. Forms of remote work—and worship!—will be turbocharged. Global supply chains, already in process of diversification, will be made more varied and resilient. Local and national resources will be marshaled. There is something about national emergencies that brings people together. Charities will work to reach the isolated and deeply affected.
But there will be populations who will bear the brunt of this disease. The elderly and immune compromised, of course. But also those without many resources—the homeless, the poor, the children. We must remember and reach out to all. Our hands must be open and giving (and well washed), not clenched. That is our mere duty as fellow human beings.
But we have additional hope and responsibilities as Christians.
The first responsibility is indeed to have hope because we have faith in a loving God and a risen Lord. We have hope because we have the compassion and power of the holy Spirit to guide and encourage and strengthen us. We have the power of prayer.
Beloved, do not underestimate the power of prayer. It is great indeed. In prayer we not only reach our hand heavenward and ask God for mercy and help. We reach our thoughts inward and see where we need to seek forgiveness and amendment of life. We see our fears and weakness—and we see them forgiven through the reconciling love of God in Christ. We rise in mind and look around. We think of those we know and love—and those in need and those alone and those who may be vulnerable. Their names and faces come to us in prayer. And we get up and do something about it. We do not stop with prayer; we begin with prayer.
We rise and get to work—even if only to the phone to the computer—to make a call, send a note. We make a prayer chain—and pastoral care chain.
We think of those who need to meet—those with essential tasks, folks in recovery, folks in isolation—and find ways to meet—perhaps online, perhaps in person with plenty of good protocols in place. We think of the energy of the children—how to get outside and exercise. How to meet in clean and discreet ways. How to have fun and not go stir-crazy.
We will figure it out. I believe in the creativity and love of people. I believe because I have seen. And I believe because I have faith.
This is after all my job, my call as priest and preacher—to share my love of God and my faith and trust in God’s saving power.
But I am also called in part to be a prophet—to speak the warnings of God as well as the promises. Psalm 95 is a psalm of joy in God and God’s creation, of thanksgiving for God’s abundance and mercy. But the last lines speak a warning. Do not put God to the test. Do not say to God, prove your power and love—make the water flow in the desert, make this disease magically disappear. it is true that God has done miracles. God did one that day at Massah and Meribah, when Moses struck the rock and water gushed out. But there was a warning attached: do not harden your hearts like our forebears did in the wilderness. Do not take God’s deliverance for granted. You must work while you can, do what you can. Do not harden your hearts and hoard and lord it over others. That way lies darkness, and wandering in the desert wilderness, and incurring the wrath not the mercy of God, not the promised land of milk and honey, the rest and peace of God.
We must not take the road of fear and hard-heartedness, my friends. We must take the way of courage, hope and faith. Let us delight in God’s will and walk in God’s ways. We will show the world the glory of God’s love if do. We share God’s peace even as we go through a rollercoaster of fear and uncertainty in the coming weeks and months. Hold on. As as we mostly remember while in the rollercoaster, do not be afraid, for God is with us. We will make it safely through. WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS—TOGETHER. Together with God and each other in Christ, amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins
Rector, Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
a sermon responding to the coronavirus pandemic
Sermon for the Third Sunday of Lent, March 15, 2020
Readings: Exodus 17;1-7; Psalm 95; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42
Sermon text: Since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. Romans 5:1-4
If Paul is right, and I believe he is, suffering borne with the hope of eventually sharing the glory of God produces endurance—resilience, grit, determination—and endurance produces character—resolute and resilient, essentially undefeated no matter what happens, the kind of person we saw in Nelson Mandela, 27 years in prison, unbowed, always hopeful, always willing to reconcile and move on, the kind of hope portrayed in the current movie A Hidden Life about an Austrian farmer who defied the Nazi regime and suffered death for it. Such character produces hope, even hope against hope when martyrdom is the result.
That hope will not disappoint, Paul says, because of the love of God that the holy Spirit has poured into our heart. God’s love is in our heart—in our being—through the two way stream of life—the water and the fire of the Holy Spirit and our spirit. Do not think that this love of God is some wishful, whimsical longing, a hope colliding against the brute reality of death. That hope does not disappoint because God’s love is power, the power of resurrection. That hope does not disappoint because God’s love is light, the light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
My beloved friends, the darkness of our day, the fear around the COVID-19 coronavirus will not triumph over us. On the contrary, if we have faith, courage, prudence and resolve, if we are creative, compassionate, patient and good-humored, we will emerge a stronger people and build a stronger world.
But that is a big if.
The temptation will be to isolate, scapegoat, seek safety and self-preservation over the common good and the common well-being. We must not let that happen.
The temptation will be to ignore the warnings by those with little risk, while those at high risk suffer the consequences of their irresponsibility.
The temptation will be to point the finger and trade the blame, and close the fist to hold on to what we have and defend against all threats.
We must resist these temptations. And from I have seen in these past two weeks we will. I have seen local, ecclesial, state and, somewhat belatedly, national leadership step up and issue strong directives about slowing the spread, flattening the curve. Preparations and supplies and money are coming on line. There will be chaos but I think we will not see scenes of terrible tragedy. I hope not—but this is a new thing we are facing, the first pandemic since the Spanish influenza of 1918. we will see if we have gotten better at understanding what the disease is—and that we surely have, in 1918 there was no understanding of how the disease spread, viruses were not discovered and studied until the 1930s. We have learned from epidemics like recent outbreaks of ebola and SARS how to isolate populations and contain the disease. This is different as it is less lethal and more subtle in its symptoms. We are responding but the cat is out of the bag. We must now learn how to improve our sanitation—as we have through many an outbreak of cholera—wash hands, use disinfectant and with an airborne virus keep social distance, contain coughing and sneezing, and otherwise be careful. As with many an experience of smallpox and tuberculosis we understand the need to quarantine and protect the medical workers. We will be careful. It will not always work. But it will help.
These are hopes—not founded on faith in God but faith in human beings acting rationally, I have some hope in that area. We will see if I am overly optimistic.
Meanwhile we will be creative. Forms of remote work—and worship!—will be turbocharged. Global supply chains, already in process of diversification, will be made more varied and resilient. Local and national resources will be marshaled. There is something about national emergencies that brings people together. Charities will work to reach the isolated and deeply affected.
But there will be populations who will bear the brunt of this disease. The elderly and immune compromised, of course. But also those without many resources—the homeless, the poor, the children. We must remember and reach out to all. Our hands must be open and giving (and well washed), not clenched. That is our mere duty as fellow human beings.
But we have additional hope and responsibilities as Christians.
The first responsibility is indeed to have hope because we have faith in a loving God and a risen Lord. We have hope because we have the compassion and power of the holy Spirit to guide and encourage and strengthen us. We have the power of prayer.
Beloved, do not underestimate the power of prayer. It is great indeed. In prayer we not only reach our hand heavenward and ask God for mercy and help. We reach our thoughts inward and see where we need to seek forgiveness and amendment of life. We see our fears and weakness—and we see them forgiven through the reconciling love of God in Christ. We rise in mind and look around. We think of those we know and love—and those in need and those alone and those who may be vulnerable. Their names and faces come to us in prayer. And we get up and do something about it. We do not stop with prayer; we begin with prayer.
We rise and get to work—even if only to the phone to the computer—to make a call, send a note. We make a prayer chain—and pastoral care chain.
We think of those who need to meet—those with essential tasks, folks in recovery, folks in isolation—and find ways to meet—perhaps online, perhaps in person with plenty of good protocols in place. We think of the energy of the children—how to get outside and exercise. How to meet in clean and discreet ways. How to have fun and not go stir-crazy.
We will figure it out. I believe in the creativity and love of people. I believe because I have seen. And I believe because I have faith.
This is after all my job, my call as priest and preacher—to share my love of God and my faith and trust in God’s saving power.
But I am also called in part to be a prophet—to speak the warnings of God as well as the promises. Psalm 95 is a psalm of joy in God and God’s creation, of thanksgiving for God’s abundance and mercy. But the last lines speak a warning. Do not put God to the test. Do not say to God, prove your power and love—make the water flow in the desert, make this disease magically disappear. it is true that God has done miracles. God did one that day at Massah and Meribah, when Moses struck the rock and water gushed out. But there was a warning attached: do not harden your hearts like our forebears did in the wilderness. Do not take God’s deliverance for granted. You must work while you can, do what you can. Do not harden your hearts and hoard and lord it over others. That way lies darkness, and wandering in the desert wilderness, and incurring the wrath not the mercy of God, not the promised land of milk and honey, the rest and peace of God.
We must not take the road of fear and hard-heartedness, my friends. We must take the way of courage, hope and faith. Let us delight in God’s will and walk in God’s ways. We will show the world the glory of God’s love if do. We share God’s peace even as we go through a rollercoaster of fear and uncertainty in the coming weeks and months. Hold on. As as we mostly remember while in the rollercoaster, do not be afraid, for God is with us. We will make it safely through. WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS—TOGETHER. Together with God and each other in Christ, amen.
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Calkins
Rector, Grace Church, Millbrook, NY
