A parishioner needed medical attention just before I delivered my sermon this morning. In the transition, I was not able to set up the mp3 recorder correctly, so you have below a sort of a paraphrase of my extemporaneous sermon.
[A brief prayer was given for both John's health and in thanksgiving for the parts of our cathedral body who are medical professionals and are ready to offer their gifts in the service of their brother in need.]
Over 40 years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. preached his last Sunday sermon. It was in an Episcopal church--in the pulpit of the National Cathedral. While his biblical text was different than that for today, much of his address spoke to the need for--and power of--unity. He said:
Through our scientific and technological genius, we have made of this world a neighborhood and yet we have not had the ethical commitment to make of it a brotherhood. But somehow, and in some way, we have got to do this. We must all learn to live together as brothers or we will all perish together as fools. We are tied together in the single garment of destiny, caught in an inescapable network of mutuality. And whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. For some strange reason I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. And you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be. This is the way God’s universe is made; this is the way it is structured.
Paul talks about that same kind of mutuality--about our inescapable interconnectedness in Christ. Our common life is not a choice, it's reality. Seeing ourselves transformed from lives of individuals divided by difference into a single body united in hope is at the core of our identity as Christians.
The Dean has challenged us each Sunday since the earthquake struck Haiti to give sacrificially to provide relief to our brothers and sisters whose lives and country have been devastated. We may understand our connectedness in a philosophical or intellectual way, but Paul challenges us to actually live out this unity, to live as though our lives are not separated from the lives of others.
A couple of summers ago, I was at Kanuga for a meeting. I wanted to go for a brief hike and another Episcopalian--concerned about sunburns and ticks--gave me a hat to wear. It was a sort of faded olive colored hat with a grayish brim. An Episcopal shield was embroidered on the front. They insisted that I keep it so I could use it the rest of the week. I don't wear it very often, but the hat always reminds me of their friendship and of their concern for me. It's a simple symbol of the wonderful fellowship I share with all of my fellow Episcopalians, scattered across 19 countries.
This week the Wall Street Journal published an interview with Jean Zache Duracin, the Episcopal Bishop of Haiti. His diocese is the largest in the Episcopal Church. Bishop Duracin's home was destroyed, his wife was injured, and he lived through the initial fear that his children had died. Refusing to be evacuated, Bishop Duracin and others are overseeing a tent village, rationing supplies scavenged from the cafeteria of a parish school.
In the WSJ's video interview, Bishop Duracin is wearing that same olive hat with that same embroidered Episcopal shield as the one I was given at Kanuga. I was moved at the sight of such a tangible sign of our connectedness. In the written story, published January 21st, he reports on the rationing of those supplies from the cafeteria:
"The stock is starting to deplete," said [Bishop]. Duracin, whose flock is now spread on the soccer field under tents and tarps. "We have only enough for perhaps another day or two."
That was three days ago.
These are our brothers, our sisters, we often say. Paul tells us they are closer than that--they are members of our very own body. We are a hand, they are a leg; we are muscle; they are bone. In just a few minutes, we'll pray that God will makes us all into that one body.
It's a lot to bear--parts of our own body buried under rubble; parts of our body starving before our eyes. We can feel helpless and overwhelmed. We can lose sight of their humanity and begin to hold them only as an intellectual problem. We can resent having to care for an injured limb when it seems it would be easier just to amputate. But, following this sermon, we'll recite the creed together. We'll proclaim together the line that reads 'We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of Life.' We'll proclaim that not only are we empowered by the Holy Spirit, but the Holy Spirit gives us our very life. That gift of an entangled life is not a burden, but the very essence of life.
In today's gospel Jesus reads from the scroll of Isaiah, telling us he's the anointed one, the one sent to deliver God's good news to the poor. We too are anointed--sealed in baptism by the power of the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ's own, forever. We gather here week after week, dipping our fingers in the blessed water of baptism and gathering around the table, putting our hand out for a bite of the Body. We leave here, not as individuals, but as members of the same body, unified in the name of Christ, enlivened by the Holy Spirit, sent to proclaim God's good news to the poor. This, Martin Luther King reminds us, is the way God’s universe is made; this is the way it is structured.
Amen.
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