| Note: No sermon is quite the same when you read it. You miss the inflections, the expression that you gain in the hearing. The words below are only a close approximation of the sermon, taken from handwritten notes. Nevertheless, the words (as best as can be deciphered!) are shared with you here. The Webmeister |
Eleventh Sunday of Pentecost Sometimes I look back twenty or so years ago fondly. I was a teenager then, and aside from tests and homework and relationships, life seemed simpler. As most teenagers feel, I also felt a certain aura of invincibility around me then. Nothing would hurt me, I was safe, and life would go on forever. This sort of invincibility carried over to my faith in God as well. I was certain, then, of God's existence, aware of his presence, and assured of my place in heaven when I died. As years passed, and life unfolded, pot shots of different sorts were taken at my solidified and certain faith, to the point where my faith in God and God's justice looked more like a piece of Swiss cheese: it was there, but there were empty pockets, or holes of uncertainty and skepticism. Before I went to seminary, I was told by someone, I can't remember who, to "not let the seminary steal my faith away from me." I brushed the comment aside, knowing in my heart that was not going to happen. But what did happen was that my faith in God changed. The certainty I held onto as a teenager was slowly released and the more I studied and learned, the more questions I had that could not be answered. Those unanswerable questions slowly fed a growing skepticism within me. At some point through the whole process, I realized that the certainty I had as a teenager of God's existence I no longer could claim. No longer could I say with an unwavering spirit that I knew what would happen when I died. No longer could I say I easily explain the resurrection of Jesus. At first, I thought it was only temporary. And I confessed to a classmate of mine who listened, but also shared with me his convictions, which he knew in his heart to be true. I already felt like the black sheep, the one whose faith was in jeopardy, being counseled by the devout and unwavering friend. Several weeks ago, I talked with that same friend, and again the conversation came up, and he shared with me that he, now a priest, found himself preaching about things he wasn't sure if he believed in. That's what I want to talk about today. Not the importance of faith. Not how to have more faith. But I want to talk about the absence of faith, and how, in a way I do not understand, the absence of faith somehow feeds my faith. Today we heard from the enigmatic chapter of Hebrews that is often called the "faith chapter." And for the next three Sundays, we will hear a series of excerpts from this chapter. The book of Hebrews is an act of faith in and of itself. Who wrote it is anyone's guess, who it was addressed to (it wasn't the Hebrews) is also up for grabs. But like faith, the uncertainty around the book of Hebrews almost gives it more power. "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," the author of Hebrews writes. And from there we are taken through a greatest hits package of the Bible's most faithful. We hear of Abraham, and how he set out to the unknown land of Canaan, led there by God, in faith. We hear of his wife Sarah, who, through faith, was able to conceive and bear a son, Isaac, at an advanced age. What is notable is that, as the author of Hebrews says, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and many others, died in faith without having received the promises given them. Abraham was promised that he would have as many descendants as there are grains of sand by the sea shore, and that did happen, but well after he died. So faith is complicated, results do not happen when we would like, and they are not beholden to our schedules. I think my experience in faith is probably somewhat similar to what you have thought or experienced. I think that it is important to entertain our own uncertainty - not to stuff it deep in the closet of our mind. Clergy, I feel, are very inclined to talk about faith, but less inclined to talk about doubts—let alone their own. I think if we do this, we become unhappy, thinking that if everyone is so certain, why can't we be? When this happens to priests, I call it "Irritable Clergy Syndrome." So let's be honest. If we are certain, then that certainty is a gift, but maybe it needs to have some uncertainty mixed in with it. When I think of faith, I don't look at it as a numerical value, meaning that if we all just had more of it, that we would necessarily be better off. Rather, I think for faith to thrive, there must be some uncertainty. Otherwise there is no need for hope. So there is not a need for more faith, rather I think we should be content with the faith we have now, but be aware that both a non - questioning faith and also an overly uncertain faith also leave little room for hope. Because if you have all the answers, then your reliance on hope is not necessary, and neither is it if you have nothing to hope for. Our faith does not need to be perfect. In fact, I think it is actually better for it to entertain imperfection, to entertain uncertainty, to entertain skepticism. Because those lead us away from our certainty where hope is unnecessary, toward a place where hope becomes our anchor. Does uncertainty in our faith allow room for hope? When we cannot explain things, it is our hope we fall back on, and hope is deeply important. "It is more serious to lose hope than to sin," a wise saint once said. Hope in resurrection. Hope in things seen and unseen. Hope in God. Uncertainty is not absence. It is the very presence of God. Amen. The Reverend James M. L. Grace August 12, 2007 *Past sermons may be found here. |
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