January 19, 2006
Organize
Epiphany 3B (Mk 1.14-20)
God and the devil are walking along the road together. God sees something lying there and picks it up. The devil says, “What’s that?” God says, “It’s the truth.” The devil says, “Give it to me, and I’ll organize it.”
Today’s gospel tells the story of Jesus selecting his disciples. It’s a story of both good news and bad news. The good news is to witness the apparently willing surrender of all that these men held dear — work, family, perhaps even their lives — for the uncertainty of whatever it might mean to follow Jesus. This kind of an act is one that might embrace us all. The bad news is to witness what are probably the first steps, albeit it nascent ones, in the organization of truth, an act that does for sure embrace us all.
A colleague of mine once introduced himself. He said, “I am a member of no organized religion. I am an Episcopalian.” I wish this were true, but of course, it is not. Nevertheless, there is a strange and uniquely Anglican spin on the Gospel that we might just remind ourselves of from time to time. It would go something like this:
Perhaps our most important and distinguishing mark is corporate prayer, with thanksgiving (we also call it Eucharist) at the center of our worship. All that we do and the way we attempt to understand what we do grows out of this, our corporate worship, powered by grace in gratitude.
We discover God’s will for us in Scripture. But also in tradition, as says one of our prayers, “joining with the heavenly chorus, with prophets, apostles, and martyrs, and with all those in every generation who have looked to (God) in hope.” We take this Scripture and this tradition and through our rational capacities we strive to understand these things. They are brought together for us in the shape of the liturgy, that is, the work of the people, so that we can share mutual trust with our inheritance.
We distrust judgmentalism, biblical literalism, election, predestination. These ideas lead to division, then hatred, alienation, and even killing. We embrace inclusiveness, moderation, and toleration. To follow these leads to collegial and spiritual enrichment.
We live comfortably with ambiguity in our tradition, and we do not require certainty in all things. We argue. We fight. But then, we come together once more for Common Prayer and Eucharist. This is our way. We seem actually and rather quaintly to prefer vagueness and imprecision. We practice a generous and forgiving orthodoxy, an ordered freedom. We are the oxymoron of the Christian view of things.
Don’t we wish. But there is hope.
There’s an Episcopal parish that, so I’ve heard, includes among its actively pledging, attending, and serving people, a group whose members have one other thing in common — they do not believe in God. That’s a pretty good step in the direction of inclusivity, might we say? For whether or not it is, what better place for atheists to be? It is good not only for them, but also for the rest of us in all our many stages of belief and disbelief.
A congregation at its best is a place where atheists may not only freely challenge theology by their mere presence, but where, as well, they may learn enough about theology to provide real substance for their disbelief and fend off a few challenges, themselves. Then, there’s always the outside chance that they may be loved so much they’ll have to wonder why on earth why.
Our sciences show us over and over with convincing and commanding evidence the great biblical truth that we human beings and all of creation for that matter are members one of another, whether we choose to be or not. What we believe, that is, what religion we may or may not practice has very little to do with it. That we cannot know absolute truth and certainty and, as the devil would have it, cannot organize it, is an idea that’s next to impossible for some folk to accept.
Nevertheless, it’s a model of community to which we all might well aspire. It’s part of this Anglican Communion’s “ordered freedom.” It is a delightfully redundant diversity with a graced pragmatism about it all. We proceed, do we not, by the way of “probable persuasions.”
Frank Griswold, the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church for whom we pray regularly in the Liturgy, claims as his rule of life these words once spoken by a Roman Catholic archbishop from South America:
“The bishop belongs to all. Let no one be scandalized if I frequent those who are considered unworthy or sinful. Who is not a sinner? Let no one be alarmed if I am seen with compromised and dangerous people, on the left or the right. Let no one bind me to a group. My door, my heart, must be open to everyone, absolutely everyone.”
This, of course, must not only be true for our bishops, but it must also be true for ourselves and thus for the church. For it is our fear that prevents us from being such a community, not our welcome and affirmation of diversity. If I must choose, and I hope never to have to, I would choose without question an uncertain church that is loving over a loveless church that is orthodox.