St Charles Episcopal Church – St Charles, Illinois

Lent 2, Year C – March 4, 2007

Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Philippians 3:17-4:1;Luke 13:(22-30) 31-35

Guest preacher: Sam A. Portaro, Jr.

“Enemies of the cross of Christ ... heading for destruction, [whose] appetite is their god, ... [who] glory in their shame.” Harsh words from the apostle Paul to the church at Philippi. While some may believe this reference is to heathens, pagans, or just what we today might call lapsed or nominal believers who continued to call themselves Christian but had reverted to old, bad habits, it may be that Paul had quite a different bunch in mind.

Much in this letter is response to the zeal of early Christians who hovered between Judaism and Christianity and insisted upon a rigorous adherence to the demands of each religion. It’s not addressed to the irreligious so much as to the hyperreligious. Paul seems to have had in mind those among the community who had set their minds upon the earthly things of religious observance: the mundane issues of ritual circumcision, the correct protocol for liturgical observances, the petty rubrics of pious devotion. Could it have been that those whom Paul fashioned “enemies of the cross of Christ” were not those who were antagonistic to religion, but rather those whose fervor constituted a gluttonous appetite for religion, those who gloried in their religious zeal?

It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time in religious history that zeal for religion had overtaken witness to the gospel. It happens easily enough, as we well know. We’re all too painfully aware of the alcoholism, pederasty, and misogyny that can fester beneath the most rigorous exercise of priestly celibacy and self-denial, the abusive sacrifice of human lives for the sake of a pious institutional facade. And what of the radiant jubilance of those whose broadcast shouts of “praise the Lord” could not mask marital infidelity, sexual prurience and pandering, profligate spending, and power gone mad. Protestant and Catholic piety alike are but thin veneer upon perverse uses of power and privilege, reducing baptism and marriage to social ritual and converting the ordinals of marriage and ordination to political tools.

Jesus lamented the heartlessness of Jerusalem, and wept over their abuse of the prophets. He pointed to the Temple, and called it “forsaken by God.” But the Temple of Jerusalem in the time of Jesus was a bustling hive of activity. It was filled with priests and services were conducted continually. People came and went and there was a lively commerce in sacrifice and devotion. There was interest in and respect for religion sufficient to sustain several sizable parties whose debates testify to the seriousness of their purpose. Even the imperial government respected this power and authority, colonial rulers allying the religious hierarchy to their plans and programs.

What Jesus deplored was not too little religion, but too much.

Minds set on earthly things. Abram concerned with his lack of progeny, one of the most important elements of faith for a man of his day. Not to produce a male heir was not just a matter of male pride; it was a matter of religious failure, a sign of divine disfavor. Abram’s mind was set on earthly things.

Philippians preoccupied with earthly things. Concerned with the strict observance of every jot and tittle of the Hebrew law, their appetite for religion made them zealous, greedy for disciplines and devotions even as Paul was struggling to instill within them enthusiasm for the liberating gospel of Jesus.

Jerusalem set on earthly things, rapt in the thrall of piety and politics, the Temple and all it contained, a substitute for faith in God and for the responsible exercise of human freedom. Pigeons a substitute for peacemaking, a lamb to atone for a lie, juridical debate passed off as justice, and a fire on the altar meant more than fire in the heart.

And our minds. Our hearts. Set on earthly things. Not just money and clothes and food. Not just family and financial security. No, those are just the easiest targets. Our minds are set on earthly things: faith quantified by the number of people in our pews, and dollars in our budgets. Our minds are set on earthly things: the color or gender or sexuality of the priest. Outward display of ashes on our foreheads, and more frantic disciplines that call attention to earthly things, earthly habits. Actions and attentions that ultimately communicate to the world around us not our faith, but our concern for earthly things.

“Look up into the sky,” says God to Abram. “We, by contrast,” says Paul to the Philippians, “are citizens of heaven, and from heaven we expect our deliverer to come.”

That is the tension, and the task, set before us. Grounded in the earth, we look to the sky. Children of the world, we are citizens of heaven. And our most powerful witness may be where our eyes are fixed. Our most effective evangelism not that which says “look at us,” but that which encourages others to look beyond. As Nietzsche wisely rebuked, “If these Christians would have us believe in their God, they should look a little more like a redeemed people.”

On a visit to the Virginia Museum in Richmond some years ago, I found myself standing on a mezzanine circling a vast room, looking toward a distant corner of the ceiling. I strained to see, but my eyes saw nothing but the distant, empty corner. Only gradually I realized that I was looking in that direction because a small group of people standing on the tier above me was also gazing in that direction. When I reached the spot where they were standing, I approached the two figures dressed much as I was dressed, casually attired for a relaxing day. They were short and middle-aged. One had a camera round his neck and was gesturing toward that distant corner of the ceiling that had grabbed my attention. His mate also directed her attention to that spot, and all of us in their company scanned that corner to see what was there.

Only slowly did we realize, to our embarrassment, that the man with the camera and his mate were polymer casts, the work of Duane Hansen's artistry. Mute, and forever gazing into space, they left a lasting impression, and teach us much about witness, the power of orientation. As we traverse another Lenten season, look to the sky--to Easter’s dawn. There let our minds be set, and our eyes fixed. For we are citizens of heaven, witness to redemption, salvation’s incarnation. AMEN.