The Pelagian Heresy and the Way of Love

Sermon preached at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Indianapolis

Proper 23

October 14, 2018

Readings: Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Ps. 90:12-17; Heb. 4:12-16; Mk. 10:17-31

Audio

More than once in church settings, I’ve been in conversations where at some point someone will finish stating an opinion on whatever the topic happens to be by saying, “and if that makes me a heretic, then I’m proud to be one!”

We take the word heresy a lot more lightly these days than we used to, and mostly I think that’s a good thing. Though in its strictest sense heresy is a contrary view on core orthodox Christian teachings, the accusation has been used as often as not to advance political agendas in both church and state, with catastrophic and bloody results. Fortunately, we are far removed from the days when the church was in the burning people at the stake business, but the public image of the church is that it is still very much in the scolding and self-righteousness business. So I’m generally on board with any effort to cut down on the judginess in favor of a bold witness to grace.

Still, looking back at the church’s earliest heresies is a worthwhile endeavor, because they are beliefs about the nature of God in Christ that our spiritual ancestors tested out and rejected, judging that they did not match what scholar Derek Olsen calls the “data” of their spiritual lives. Some of these can seem technical and arcane, like the many, many heresies about the nature of the Trinity - it’s not for nothing that preachers frequently refer to Trinity Sunday as “accidental heresy Sunday”. I would argue that despite the appearance of hairsplitting, the Trinitarian heresies are important, but that’s a whole other sermon.

Bur also dating from around the same time, in the fourth century, is one heresy that has lately made quite a comeback, Pelagianism. This heresy, named after an Irish monk whose actual involvement in its teachings is a bit murky, is the idea that humans are untainted by original sin, and that we are capable of choosing good over evil without divine aid. Or to put it more simply, that our own works can save us.

It’s an appealing idea, and one that at first glance seems to sit well with our church’s effort to be havens from the judgmentalism not just of other churches but also of a secular culture that constantly tells us that we’re not fit enough, skinny enough, healthy enough, rich enough, or pretty enough. It seems to reflect instead some kind of triumph of the irrepressible human spirit, and what’s not to like about that?

But experience suggests that Pelagianism just isn’t true. I was thinking about this recently when I was on retreat at a monastery in Michigan. Each night at compline the monks say a confession that is slightly modified from the one we say on Sunday, to emphasize that the monks’ sins are not just against God but are also against their own community. “What sins could they possibly be confessing?” I wondered. After all, a monastery seems like an environment that is optimized for virtue.

But then the next day while I was walking past the office I noticed one of the brothers watching internet cat videos during the time the monks are supposed to be working on the maintenance and improvement of the community. Later I learned that one of the monks had had a major health crisis that had him using a walker sometimes, but mostly a wheelchair. And while I only saw the brothers treat him with kindness and respect, any of you who have cared for an aging loved one know the awful thoughts that come unbidden and involuntary, no matter how much you love them.

Moreover, it is only on the surface that Pelagianism seems to endorse the nobility of the human soul. It is the duty of our churches to welcome people in, wherever they are on their spiritual journeys and whatever troubles or failings they have. Or as the sign at the Church of God down the road from here at 10th and Franklin put it as I was driving here this morning: “The Church: Where it’s ok not to be ok.” But, if we take the idea that humans are capable of making the right choice, always, on our own, to its logical conclusion, then all our shortcomings, failings, betrayals, and sins are not the result of the battle for our hearts waged by the hosts of heaven and the great Adversary. Instead, they're just our own fault. And so, by soft-pedaling original sin because it sounds so judgy, we risk squandering the church’s twin treasures of forgiveness and grace, trading them in for blame. And so the church becomes an unsafe place not to be ok.

A rich man kneels before Jesus and asks what is required of him to receive eternal life, and Jesus gives him an answer he cannot bear to hear, to sell everything he owns, give all the money he earns to the poor, and come to the truest possible relationship he can have with God: utter dependence.

I wonder what the man hoped to hear. You all know the story of Naaman the Aramean in 2 Kings: he was a great general. And yet however great he was, however many battles he won, he could never have full standing among his people, because he had leprosy, and was thus unclean. He encounters the prophet Elisha, who tells him the way to be healed, to bathe in the Jordan seven times. Naaman doesn’t want to do it - he was expecting something a lot more dramatic, and also, he complains that the Jordan isn’t that nice of a river anyway. He almost goes home uncured and still unclean, until his servants convince him, saying, “If the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more when all he said to you was “Wash, and be clean?” So Naaman washes, and is healed.

The rich man would have known this story, and in his pursuit of eternal life he was expecting something difficult, some way to earn extra credit over and above following the commandments. But he wasn’t expecting to be told this, to be stripped of his entire constructed identity, his wealth, his power, his possessions, and his choices, and as an unburdened child of God to follow his master, Jesus. And so he went away, for the cost of obtaining salvation on his own merits - total self denial - had been revealed to him. And he grieved, because he knew he didn’t have the strength to do it. So much for eternal life.

This teaching is too hard for the disciples, too. “Then who can be saved?” they ask. Jesus answers, “for mortals it is impossible, but with God, all things are possible.” In other words, salvation is by God’s grace.

Except for Peter - Peter doesn’t have a problem with this teaching. He’s all, “Hey Jesus, I’ve got this. I have left everything behind. I have followed you.” Sure Peter, sure. Let’s talk about this again after you deny Jesus three times.

When the rich man asks Jesus his question, notice what Jesus does before his delivers his impossible answer. He gazes upon him and loves him. The Word made flesh, living and active, recognizes one of his children, sees him as he is, in his sin, vulnerability, uncertainty, and need, and takes him into the heart of God. The man asks the question because he knows deep down that even though he has done all the “right things,” followed all the commandments from his youth, something is missing. Jesus’s true answer is grace.

So how are you doing, St. Matthew’s? If there’s a thing I worry about all the time in my role on the bishop’s staff, it’s that tension between loving - so deeply loving - the God who gives us life, while finding that being the church, and all the things we think we have to do to sustain it, can be so exhausting. I won’t make you say if that sounds familiar to you, but the struggle is real in a lot of places.

The job of the church is not to perpetuate the institution with the doing of the things and the keeping up of appearances.  It is to love and follow Jesus, to tune our lives to the heartbeat of the one in whose love he invites us to abide.

What that takes is not more things to do or boxes to check, but a return to first things, recognizing that we are the people of God’s pasture, the sheep of God’s hand, and listen for our shepherd's voice.

That can be really hard in the noisiness of the world and the business of our lives. But Presiding Bishop Michael Curry has proposed one way to do this, returning to the core practices of discipleship that date back to the earliest Christians. He calls it The Way of Love, a seven-fold rule of life for living in a world where being serious about following Jesus is increasingly counter-cultural. And now more than ever, the world needs serious followers of Jesus.

Whether for a church of an individual, the practices of the Way of Love are intended to help you stay rooted in God’s love for you. I'll just summarize it here.

First, turn: once upon a time the word we’d use for this is “repent,” but that vocabulary term has acquired a reputation. But what this means is that wherever you are in your life, acknowledging your faults as matter-of-factly as you can, turn to the one who created you and sustains you.

Learn: know your faith. Engage with scripture. It’s stories are your story.

Worship weekly in community, to be nourished by God’s word, by each other, and by the Body and Blood of our Lord.

Establish a routine of prayer, an act of self-giving of time and attention to God on your own behalf and on behalf of others.

Bless: Let your life of faith be a blessing to others through acts of service and evangelism, sharing how a relationship with God has transformed and sustained you.

Go into the world with eyes trained to see where God is active, where people are celebrating, where hearts are broken.

And last, rest, for we are not made for endless striving. Sabbath is God’s gift to us.

These are not things to do so much as a way to be, not a way to earn God’s love so much as a way to receive it. Which is not to say this is easy. How might your life, your family’s life, your church’s life look when this is the guide?

The concept of original sin gets a bad rap today - too pessimistic about human nature, too judgmental - but it is profoundly liberating, because it means the wars fought in our hearts are not solely of our making, and we have Jesus fighting on our side as our redeemer, mediator, and advocate. As the author of the letter to the Hebrews writes, “We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who is every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we me receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

Marriage, Divorce, and the Time Between

A few people have asked for a transcript of this sermon; if that's you, read on:

Sermon for Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost (October 7, 2018)

Proper 22, Track 2

Episcopal Church of All Saints, Indianapolis

Readings: Gen. 2:18-24; Ps. 8; Heb. 1:1-4, 2:5-12; Mk. 10:2-16

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Far be it from me to try get into the heads of the compilers of the lectionary,but  the effect of today’s selections, I think, is to inspire a few statistically probable kinds of sermons:

There’s the one that extols the virtues of marriage, possibly with some sage marriage advice weaved in.

There’s the one that decries the casualness of marriage and the commonness of divorce, maybe with a side helping of shaming those who are divorced, especially women. I’m going to circle back to this subject.

In more recent years, we might also hear the interpretation that this is the passage of scripture that proves Jesus is not on board with same sex marriage, what with Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, and so forth.

Being on the cusp of my fifth wedding anniversary puts me in a frame of mind to walk through door number one, extolling the virtues of marriage.

But before I go there, let’s take a quick second to talk about same-sex marriage. A common critique of our church’s favorable view on the subject is that “we haven’t done the theology,” or that the church has succumbed to “cultural Erastianism,” which I heard during our summer vacation in the words of a priest who thought a lengthy lecture comparing the contemporary cultural status of the Church of England to a sixteenth-century heresy was precisely what cruise ship passengers attending a Sunday evening Eucharist had signed up for. But I digress. We have done the theology.

In the first two chapters of Genesis, there are two separate accounts of creation that each convey complementary truths about God’s intention for the world. Jesus refers to both of them in the passage of Mark we hear today.

In the first account, at the creation of humankind, God creates humans male and female, each equally in the image of God. This tells us that equality of men and women is what is intended from the beginning of creation, and we can include in that equality of the partners in marriage, whatever the gender configuration.

In the second account, the source of the bit of Genesis we heard this morning, the beginning of the sequence of events that leads to Eve’s creation from Adam’s own flesh is God’s tender observation that “it is not good for the man to be alone.” The problem God is solving in the creation of Eve is not the problem of human reproduction, but the despair of loneliness. Eve is the remedy to Adam’s loneliness (and, I hasten to add, she is also her own person). Opposite sex desire is statistically most common and is indeed necessary for procreation, but if we trust that our individual sexualities are gifts from God, then same-sex pairings are no less blessed.

Ok, preaching to the choir here. Back to door number one, extolling the virtues of marriage, with sage advice on how to make it work.

For this topic, I consulted one of the great fathers of the early church, Jerome, who spent many years during the fourth century as a hermit in the Egyptian desert, which he seems to have believed uniquely qualified him as an expert on the relative merits of marriage and virginity. In his treatise “Against Helvidius,” where he argues stridently that the virginity of the Blessed Mother was not limited to the time before Jesus’s birth but was in fact perpetual, he describes the virtues of the institution of marriage like this:

The prattling of infants,

The noisy clamoring of the whole household

The clinging of children to the neck,

The computing of expenses,

The preparing of budgets.

Wait, what? Oh, there’s more:

The pounding of meats by a busy band of cooks

The chattering of a crowd of women weavers,

And in the meantime, you’re told that your beloved has arrived home...with friends!

Is the couch arranged?

Are the floors swept?

Are the drinking bowls in order?

Tell me, I ask you, where is there any opportunity to think of God in all this?

*cough*

Hey guys, new idea. Do you mind if we just shift gears and talk about the apocalypse instead?

I’m serious, but bear with me. This is going to take a minute.

The book of Judges shows up only once in the three-year Sunday lectionary, but if you read the Daily Office practically the whole thing will show up in the summer of every even-numbered year. It was in one such year that I first made the acquaintance of one of the Judges of Israel called Jephthah. Jephthah took Israel to war against some of the inhabitants of the land. Before one such battle, Jephthah “vowed to the Lord, ‘if you give the Ammonites into my hands, whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites will be the Lord’s, and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering.”

Jephthah and his armies prevail, and when he returns home, he is immediately greeted by his daughter, his only child, who comes out of the door of his house, dancing. Jephthah says to her, “I have made a vow to the Lord that I cannot break.” He kills her.

I was shocked when I first encountered this story, and in the time since it’s become a minor obsession. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve scoured commentaries trying to understand the hidden meaning of this text, which itself is curiously neutral on the events. Believe me when I tell you that the author of Judges doesn’t hold back from calling people wicked, but Jephthah receives no judgment, positive or negative.

If you look at the commentaries, the most common explanation treats the story as a sort of fable, the moral of which is, “don’t make stupid vows because you’ll have to keep them, no matter what.” More sophisticated treatments focus on the tragedy of Jephthah, who will have no descendants because he sacrificed his only daughter, but still evade the moral question of whether Jephthah was right to keep the vow. It was only when I read Robert Boling’s commentary in the Anchor Bible series two weeks ago that I got somewhere. He concludes his discussion of Jephthah by saying he was “an exemplary...judge.” Exemplary, as in, an example to be followed.

And so I finally understood. There is no hidden meaning in this story. It’s not mysterious at all. It just tells the facts of an event where a father murders his daughter. But it is a mirror that reveals something about the hearts of its readers and commentators: that we will come up with any justification to excuse the behavior, however horrifying, of any man, as long as that man’s actions in general line up with our own self-interest. Jephthah defeats the Ammonites, so the murder of his daughter is a family matter. I’ll let you come up with your own contemporary examples.

I wasted hours on the commentaries about Jephthah and the burnt offering of his daughter, when I should have focused on just one that mattered, in Psalm 51: “Had you desired it, I would have offered sacrifice, but you take no delight in burnt offerings. The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

In other words, Jephthah, you idiot. You should have broken your stupid vow.

Which brings us back to the apocalypse.

When you’re reading the Old Testament, it’s important to remember that after the point where our Genesis reading left off today, we’ve got about 6 verses until sin worms its way into the hearts of Adam and Eve. In the subsequent dozens of books covering thousands of years, we have the history, poetry, and prophecy of a relationship between God and creation with sin as the constant interloper. In other words, when the Old Testament is describing events that happened, sin is part of the story.

When Jesus answers the Pharisees’ question about divorce, something different is happening. Jesus is bringing the Kingdom of God near.  In appealing to Genesis, Jesus reaches back before the Fall, to where God’s original intent for marriage was revealed, for it to be lifelong and faithful, and characterized by such intimacy that two join into a single flesh. That is the design for marriage crafted for Eden, and as close as some marriages may come to resembling that ideal - at least some of the time - we are all cut off from its full flower by the cherubim with flaming sword stationed at Eden’s gate.

Now, the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ was supposed to have fixed all that. You can see that in the great icon of the Resurrection, where Jesus drags Adam and Eve from their tombs. Or more viscerally in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: there, beneath the part of the church where tradition locates the site of the crucifixion, there is a chapel before a crevice in the rock where Christ’s blood was surmised by some to have trickled down to where Adam’s body rested in wait, for Jesus to descend to the dead to undo the curse of mortality that he and Eve wrought.

But hang on - mortality is still a thing. We die.

Sin is still a thing. You don’t need to look far to see that.

And it didn’t take the early church long to see that there was a tension between the victory over sin and death already being won, yet the fulfillment of that victory coming in the future.

Writing to the Corinthians, Paul says, “Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we will also bear the image of the man of heaven.”

This summarizes a concept theologians have called the “already/not-yet” or “the time between,” that is the intervening period between Christ’s resurrection and ascension and the fulfillment of God’s plan for creation at his coming again on the last day.

In other words, right now.

We continue to live in a time when even though the victory is assured, the Lord of Hosts continues to battle the forces of darkness that are still among us, and to paraphrase Dostoevsky with a hat tip to Fleming Rutledge, the battlefield is the human heart.

That means that even though we can recognize the way Jesus describes marriage - as a lifelong indissoluble physical and spiritual bond between two people - as what God intends, we also know that the Kingdom of God while near, is not quite here, and we’re not going to get there under our own power.

We still have to take Jesus seriously. The vows we make to one another before God have to mean more than the empty promises of slick salespeople or political ads. So we’re fortunate that marriage comes with many sub-vows, so even if we’re not firing on all cylinders on all the vows all the time, we can do at least well enough the keep the main one intact, with God’s help.

But in this already/not-yet we also know that things go badly wrong, that there are breaches of trust that can’t be healed, or it’s the right promise wrong time, or wrong person, or the wrong promise altogether. In the Kingdom of God there is no coercion, no betrayal, no forced marriages, no Vegas weddings. But here, there are. And as we stand today, outside the gates of Eden and the New Jerusalem both, we work with the tools we have. Which sometimes means walking apart.

To get super-specific on what The Episcopal Church teaches about divorce, when you go home look up Title I, Canon 19 in the Constitution and Canons. I know you all have copies. But the TL;DR is that when a priest becomes aware of trouble in a marriage, her first job is to ensure the emotional and physical safety of the spouses before making any attempt to encourage reconciliation; that the legitimacy of children is never in question; and that in the event of divorce former spouses have a continuing duty of concern for the well-being of one another and their children.

As for the virtues of marriage, St. Jerome was not a fan. Truth be told, the man was obsessed with virginity in a way that was a bit extra, if not outright creepy. Writing to Eustochium, a young disciple whose mother had pledged her as a perpetual virgin (thanks, mom!) the nicest thing he could say about marriage was, “I praise wedlock, I praise marriage, but it is because the children they produce are virgins.”*

Yeah.

But let’s return to his list of complaints. The flipside of prattling infants he bemoans was for me being bossed around this summer by a four year old girl with stuffed dinosaurs she had named Brendan and Frank. The flipside of managing household budgets is the thoughtful joint stewardship of God’s generosity. The flip side of the crowd of chattering weavers - actually I’m not really sure what that’s about. Matching placemats, maybe. The flipside of a spouse who brings friends home is having friends who love you to bring.

“Where is there anywhere to think of God in all this?” Jerome asks. I ask you, “where isn’t there?”

The very best version of a marriage we will see in this age is one where ultimately death severs the bond, leaving one spouse to carry the grief that is the echo of love. Our certainties are uncertain, friends, except for this one: that Jesus Christ, the pioneer of our salvation, has gone before us through the gate through which we all must one day go.

I don’t know what we shall become in the future, after this time between, but here and now we are God’s children**.

And whether at the hour of death or in the age to come - whichever gets here first - when we see the one who will judge our frailties and probe our hearts, we will find a friend and not a stranger.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

* Jerome, Letter XXII
** 1 John 3:1-2, “New Testament in Modern English” trans. J.B. Philips, paraphrase