Sermon: In Jesus’ Name

My sister has always been difficult. While we were growing up, my parents had a number of nicknames for her that are testament to the force of Tiffany’s will: “the Brat” and “the Terror” among them. But my favorite was, “Monster” and as far as I was concerned, that was pretty accurate. I lived in perpetual fear of the times my parents would go out and leave Tiffany in my care. I can recall days when I ran through my entire savings in bribes just to get her to behave. They say that poverty and peace often go together, and if my early babysitting experiences are any indication, there is truth to this. 

 

Consequently, I did not grow up with a great deal of fondness for my sister. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always loved her, but I have not always LIKED her. In fact, she frequently made me so mad I would plead for God’s intervention. Specifically, I would ask God to take revenge upon her, mostly because I was too much of a coward to do it myself. So when I earnestly prayed that God would cause her mouth to stretch until the front of her face fell off, I couldn’t understand why God did not grant my humble and most sincere request. Especially since I ended my prayer with the magic formula that made every prayer a sure-fire winner. I prayed, “In Jesus’ name.” 

 

I’m only half joking when I call this a “magic formula,” because in the Evangelical church in which I was raised, this phrase is taken very seriously indeed. For many Christians, a prayer that does not end with this phrase just doesn’t get past the ceiling. God is leaning precariously off of his cloud clutching his ear horn until that magical clause is added that suddenly makes all prayer audible to the Almighty. 

 

Not only does adding this clause make the prayer audible to God, but it makes the prayer efficacious as well. Jesus, at the end of today’s reading, says, “Whatever you ask in my name I will do, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If you ask me ANYTHING in my name, I will do it.” 

 

Now, obviously, I was abusing this verse when I asked God, in Jesus’ name, to de-face my sister, but I was certainly not alone. Christians have been abusing the privilege of their prayers for centuries based on this verse. By the power of this verse, God’s wrath has been called down upon the Jews, the Muslims, the homosexuals, the witches, the Catholics, the Commies, the hippies, and difficult siblings everywhere. It has been used for everything from invoking genocide to starting stalled cars. It is, in fact, one of the most abused verses in the Bible. 

 

Coming as it does from the Gospel of John, we have to remember that this verse was written when the fledging Christian church was undergoing extreme persecution. The Gospel’s author wanted to comfort his readers, to give them a sense of Jesus’ presence and power in their midst. He wanted them to feel empowered, that God was on their side, and would not abandon them. That is what this verse is about, and I am quite sure that it offered a great deal of comfort to its first readers.

 

But we, nearly 2,000 years later, are not hiding for fear of our lives. How can we reframe this ancient promise in a way that gives us hope and instruction for our lives, without relegating this verse to the status of a magical formula by which we can lead God around by the ear and make him do our bidding, as so many others seem to want to do?

 

About ten years ago, when Lawson and I were part of the Festival of the Holy Names ritual community, we were engaged in a long process of completely revisioning the liturgy, many pieces of which have found a home in our current liturgy. My wife at the time, Kate, was having a terrible time with the traditional ending of our prayers. “I just can’t pray ‘in Jesus’ name’,” she complained, “I don’t even know what that MEANS.”

 

None of the rest of us had that much of a problem with it—it held the place of more or less meaningless tradition for most of us, and since it didn’t really wrankle us, why bother with it? But it wrankled Kate, a lot, and so we wrestled with it together. Eventually she came to a place where she could affirm praying “in the Spirit of Jesus,” since that did not conjure up any more magical consequences than praying “in the Spirit of Gandhi.” In fact, Kate would have had no problems praying “in the Spirit of Gandhi,” and so she suggested that language to us. 

 

I don’t remember what happened to that conversation, because praying “in the Spirit of Jesus” never made it into our liturgy. In fact, I think we decided that since God did not need a magical clause as a hearing aid, we could just drop it altogether, and thereby make our prayers more interfaith in the process. 

 

But Kate’s solution has stuck with me. I remember her using it in her personal prayers, and I have even used it a time or two myself. It’s one thing to pray “in Jesus’ name,” but what does it mean to pray, “in the Spirit of Jesus”?

 

For one thing, praying in this way encourages us to discern whether what we are praying for is, in fact, in the Spirit of Jesus. Is what we are praying for worthy of who Jesus was and is? Is it worthy of us as his hands and feet on earth? Is it for our own selfish interests, or does it display evidence of the fruits of the Spirit: kindness, gentleness, forbearance, longsuffering, and love? 

 

In other words, before I pray “in the Spirit of Jesus” I have to stop and ask myself if my prayer actually IS in the Spirit of Jesus. And if I am honest, and if my prayer is not worthy to be prayed in the Spirit of the Living Christ, then there is an invitation for me to adjust my prayer, my desires, and, certainly, my attitude, until my prayer conforms to that Spirit of Jesus that I profess to live my life by. 

 

That’s a challenging thing to do, but I think it’s valuable. The air is filled with too much cheap prayer. I can just see God on his throne, eyes glazed over with boredom, with a sock puppet over one hand, going “blah blah blah blah….” I have often said that the purpose of prayer is not to change God’s mind, but to change human hearts. Our hearts. And questioning our motives, our intent, and indeed, the very spirit of our prayers seems like a fine place to start. 

 

So how about it? Are the prayers that you offer “in the Spirit of Jesus”? I invite you to use this clause for a while in place of “in Jesus’ name” and see how it changes things for you. And if you don’t use a clause at all, I invite you to try it out. It can’t hurt, and anything that helps us to reflect, to become more mindful and compassionate, can only make us more successful ministers of the Good News, and better people over all. 

 

And, of course, this strategy isn’t limited to Christians. As Krishna says in our interfaith reading, “in any way that people love me in that same way they find my love; for many are people’s paths, but they all in the end come to me.” So if praying in the Spirit of Jesus isn’t your thing, try praying in the Spirit of Krishna, or Durga, or Buddha, or Mohammad, or for heaven’s sake, in the Spirit of Gandhi. Whichever luminary you choose to light your path, we are all ascending the same mountain, and anything which reminds us to be kind, compassionate, and mindful is a good thing, no matter what name you call it by. 

 

Now, having said all of that, I am reminded of that story in the New Testament Apocrypha where Jesus, as a boy, is being taunted by the village bully. The bully teases and humiliates Jesus in front of his friends, and then runs away, laughing. But the bully doesn’t get far, because Jesus points a finger at him and the bully falls over dead. So who says praying for the front of my sister’s face to fall of was not in the Spirit of Jesus? It just depends upon which gospel you’re reading. Let us pray…

 

God, we are often so blinded by our own petty concerns,
By the troubles that buffet us from day to day, 
That we do not see the larger picture.
We do not see that others are suffering so much more than we,
Or that what we want is not always the best thing for us.
Help us, when we come before thee,
To be mindful of what we ask.
Help us to be grateful and thankful for the many gifts we have,
And help us to pray for those things that truly make the world at large
–and not just OUR tiny corner of it—a better place for all. 
For we ask this in the Spirit of Jesus,
Who calls us all to courage, kindness, and compassion. Amen. 

Sermon: The Hidden God

The Hindu epic, The Mahabharata, is the story of the rivalry between two sets of royal brothers, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, who are, in fact, cousins. In one scene, the Kauravas’ challenge the Pandava’s to a game of dice. The leader of the Pandava’s, Yudishtera, feels it is dishonorable to decline, and he agrees. Both sets of brothers huddle around the dice board, and Yudishtera first puts up a great deal of money. In one throw, it was all lost. He then put up all of his and his brothers’ slaves. A throw later, they, too, were lost. Yudishtera was sure the Kauravas were cheating, but to stop would be to rob the cheaters of an opportunity for repentance, so he played on. 

 

Next he played his thousands of chariots. Lost. Then he bet all his forests. Lost. Then he bet his kingdom. Lost. It seemed Yudishtera had nothing left to bet. Then an insane light came into his eyes. “I still have my brothers,” he said, and one at a time, he bet them. And throw after throw, he lost them. Finally, he said, “I have only myself left. I play myself,” and threw the dice. And he lost. 

 

The Kauravas were about to lead the Pandavas away, when Yudishtera said, “Wait, I have one more thing!” And he bet his wife. Well, she wasn’t just his wife. She was the one wife of all of the Pandava brothers. The Pandavas were horrified, but they held their tongues. Yudishtera threw the dice, and Draupadi, their wife, too, was lost. 

 

Roughly, one of the Kauravas dragged Draupadi before her husbands and revealed to her her fate. She spit at Yudishtera, and raged at him, “How can you play me when you have already lost yourself!” But to no avail. They were all slaves, now, and the Kauravas ordered them stripped of their finery. The brothers complied, but Draupadi refused, not wanting to expose herself to the beasts that had swindled her into slavery. Instead of obeying, she sank to her knees and began to sing the name of Krishna. 

 

The leader of the Kauravas had no patience for such desperate piety and ordered his younger brother to rip Draupadi’s sari from her. The brother grabbed at the length of cloth hanging from her shoulder and pulled. A great length came away in his hand, but Draupadi was not exposed. He grabbed at more of the cloth, but the more he pulled, the more unwound from over her shoulder. 

 

As Draupadi sang, she looked toward heaven, and saw Krishna standing over her shoulder, bolts of cloth pouring out of his hand held near the small of her back. Tears of joy, relief, and salvation poured from Draupadi’s eyes, and she sang another hymn to Krishna’s holy name. 

 

Finally, the Kaurava brother gave up, a pile of sari cloth looming higher than Draupadi herself beside him. Draupadi looked up at Krishna again. He winked at her, and disappeared from her view. 

 

I was reminded of this story this week as I contemplated the story of the road to Emmaus, because it seemed to me to provide a mythological echo. The Pandava’s were in their darkest hour. Through a misguided attempt to do the right thing, the Pandava’s lost everything, their property, their dignity, even themselves. But even though all seemed lost, they were not alone. Although Krishna was at first unseen, he revealed himself to Draupadi in the moment of her greatest need, and gave her salvation and hope. 

 

The disciples on the road to Emmaus, too, were in the midst of a great personal tragedy. When Jesus had been killed, all their hopes had been killed with him. Their teacher had been shamed and executed as a criminal, and they had little else to do but to crawl away in their shame, lick their wounds, and wonder how to carry on. No doubt they were not just slinking away due to disappointment, but fleeing for fear that those who had killed Jesus would next be coming after them. The game had been played, and they had lost. In fact, they had lost it all, and no doubt they wondered what was left living for. 

 

Yet in the hour of their great dispair, they were not alone. Although as yet unseen, Jesus was near, and spoke to them words of encouragement and hope. And as he spoke, their hearts burned within them, reigniting that hope, and perhaps even, a will to live. And when that stranger broke bread with them, they recognized that Jesus had been with them all along. 

 

This has not been an easy winter for many of us. There has been a great deal of illness among us, a great deal of struggle, a great deal of pain, and not a little bit of despair. But the hope of Easter is that death is always followed by life, that winter is always followed by Spring. And that through it all, regardless of how cold or dark or bleak or hopeless things appear, we are not alone. Even though he may be unseen, the Holy One is with us, speaking a word of comfort and hope when those things are in such short supply. 

 

And it is when things seem their darkest that his Presence is made known to us, winking at us over our shoulder, warming us in a child’s smile, or revealed to us in the simple act of breaking bread with our friends. We have not been left alone. As bad as things seem, we have not been sold into slavery or thrown to the wolves. Emmanuel means “God is with us,” and it is both a name for Jesus, and a promise. 

 

A few weeks ago I told you about my health crisis, about my despair, and about the naturopath who gave me hope and put me on a very restricted diet. I am relieved to report to you today, that after only three weeks, my daily pain level on a scale of 1 to 10 has gone from an average of 6 and 7 to an average of 1 to 2. It feels truly miraculous. I had begun to lose hope, I had begun to wonder if I was going to be able to continue living with that much pain, and going to this practitioner was a last ditch effort. 

 

Like Draupadi, I cried out in my despair to the Holy One, and I believe my prayer was answered—in the form of an ill-tempered Jewish naturopath, perhaps, but if God can appear as Jesus, a late-blooming Jewish carpenter or Krishna, a blue-skinned flute-toting cowboy, God can come in even more unlikely forms, and who am I to judge? I am, instead, exceedingly grateful, relieved, and much to my own surprise, once again hopeful. 

 

I know I’m not the only one who has felt the touch of grace, of salvation, of hope in this Easter season. God has been good to us, and God has not abandoned us. But not all of us are out of the woods yet. We continue to pray for Berta, and most of us know someone who is still trapped in fear and despair. But although we symbolically celebrate the Easter promise once a year, it is not actually a seasonal truth. The Easter promise is eternal: even in our darkest hour, when all seems lost, we are not alone. God is with us, in the end, darkness and despair will not win out. Hope and life will triumph, not just because we have faith, but sometimes in spite of our despair. 

 

Not everyone saw Krishna standing over Draupadi’s shoulder, but Draupadi did. The disciples on the road did not recognize Jesus at first—it was only gradually that they realized that he had been present. Just so, it is not always obvious that God is with us, especially when the pain and despair is at its greatest. But this is exactly when we should call for him, and when we should look for him. Because we will find him, even in something as simple as the breaking of bread. Let us pray…

 

Jesus, when we dwelt in the tombs, you descended into hell, 

you found us, and you trampled down death by death, 

restoring life and liberating us from despair.

Help us, when things seems bleak, 

To to call upon thee, to look for thee, to find thee,

In the sure and certain hope of resurrection,

For we ask this in thy holy and irepressable name, 

Emmanuel, God is with us, now, and forever. Amen. 

Redefining Celibacy, Chastity and Virginity

Our co-pastor, Fr. Richard, loves to confound newcomers to our parish by insisting, “I am a celibate priest!” Since Richard’s wife has just been introduced to them, they are understandably confused. Richard, an impish Englishman delights as much in their confusion as he does in his explanation. “In our parish, we honor celibacy, chastity, and virginity…” he begins, and those of us who have been there for years can pretty much mouth the words along with him from there. 

Celibacy, chastity, and virginity are not exactly popular subjects in mainline churches, but then, ours is far from your typical mainline church. We are Congregationalist (NACCC, not UCC), and choose to call only pastors ordained in the apostolic succession. We worship in a high Anglican fashion (we use the 1662 Book of Common Prayer adapted for inclusive language—lots of “thees” and “thous” but few “Lords”) and dogs are welcome at all services, and may take communion along with human parishioners if they so desire. 

But it is our trumpeting of celibacy, chastity, and virginity that mark us as truly unusual. It was Richard’s idea, and I used to think he was nuts. Now I just think he’s freakin’ brilliant. Richard’s genius was to recast celibacy, chastity, and virginity from the realm of sexuality into the realm of politics—specifically congregational polity. 

The priests in our parish are celibate because we have no administrative power or responsibilities whatsoever. We make no decisions, we handle no money, we oversee no accounting or, really, anything else. We preach, teach, lead liturgy, visit the sick, and absolutely nothing else. We are completely celibate as regards to power in the parish. 

The parishioners run the parish entirely on their own, and when they meet to decide on a matter, clergy have voice but no vote (we share this distinction with canine parishioners and humans under the age of thirteen). Of course our opinions carry some weight, but when the time to vote comes, we sit on our hands, and honor the discernment of the wise people of God who call us to serve them. 

It is also our responsibility to remind parishioners to be chaste in regards to their own power. All human parishioners over thirteen years of age have one vote, and therefore share equal power. Parishioners are chaste when they do not try to dominate others, insist they get their way, or otherwise force their will upon the community. 

Ideally, our parish makes all decisions by consensus. We remain chaste by not moving forward on a matter if everyone does not agree, or those who dissent do not give their permission. If we must resort to democracy, we consider ourselves to have failed. All major decisions are made in a quarterly parish meeting, while the nitty-gritty details of running the church are handled at a monthly meeting of the trustees, an elected board. All meetings are open to all parishioners, and any decision of the trustees can be brought before the quarterly parish meeting for review by any parishioner. 

You might think we move slowly, but that is not the case. I have rarely experienced a congregation that is more loving of one another, more in sync, or that moves with such speed. It is nothing short of miraculous, and I think it is largely due to the fact that everyone feels like his or her virginity is honored. 

In our parish, virginity is understood as owning one’s own power. Every person is a virgin, and does not hand their power over to another. Every parishioner feels empowered politically, has authority to exercise his or her ministry with the support of the community, and has a real sense of ownership of the parish. 

To extend the metaphor further, any incident of forcing one’s power upon another—or upon the community at large—compromises peoples’ virginity, and can only be described as political rape. In my opinion and experience, political rape is the norm, not the exception in spiritual communities. It is shocking to say so, yet many of our parishioners have been wounded by abuses of power in other communities, and are relieved to find safe haven in our polity. By calling political rape what it is, we reveal it’s wrongness, and can embrace another way of being together. 

So long as the clergy are celibate and the people are chaste, no abuse of power mars the life of the parish. I have served this parish for thirteen years, and we have never had a single serious incident of the misuse of power, either by clergy or by parishioners. We may be an eccentric and eclectic bunch, but we are nothing if not a harmonious church family, and we all feel privileged to be together. It is a safe place to be, and we are all grateful for it. 

Our parish sits only five blocks from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, and a few weeks ago our ministerial intern brought her cohort to visit our historic arts-and-crafts-style building, and to spend an hour interviewing me as one of the pastors. They were incredulous as I described our policy of celibacy, chastity, and virginity. One of them protested forcefully, “But what about your pastoral authority?”

I must admit my response was not terribly pastoral—I laughed out loud. “What authority?” I said. “I have no pastoral authority whatsoever. I don’t tell anyone what to do or what to believe, nor do I make any decisions. I have lots of pastoral responsibility, however. I am responsible for visiting sick parishioners, for delivering thoughtful and inspiring sermons, and for reminding people to be kind to one another and chaste in their use of power. But authority? Oh, no. I have none.” I am, after all, a celibate priest.