Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

Tag: Judaism (Page 1 of 2)

Of God and Dwelling Places – Sermon for Proper 16, RCL Year B

Again this week as last, our first reading today is from the First Book of Kings and like last week’s, it is a prayer spoken by King Solomon. Last week, it was a private prayer spoken in a dream late at night. Today, it is a public prayer. As long as it was, this reading is just a small part of the dedicatory prayer that Solomon offered when the Temple was finished and consecrated. In it, Solomon asks an important question, “[W]ill God indeed dwell on the earth?”[1] More specifically, Solomon is asking if God will dwell in the Temple, and the wise king immediately answers his own question: “[H]eaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built!”[2]

The building of the Temple in 957 BCE[3] marked a very significant change in the Jewish religion. Well, really, let’s not call it the Jewish religion because it wasn’t that, yet. Let’s just say, “The religion of the people of Israel.” These people were not, though we often imagine them to be, strict monotheists. Even in this prayer, Solomon leaves open the question of whether there might be gods other than their God: “O Lord, God of Israel, there is no God like you in heaven above or on earth beneath.”[4] There might be other gods, lesser gods perhaps, demigods, or even demons, part of a heavenly pantheon of gods, but this God, the God of the People of Israel is greater than any of those others.

At this time, the ancient Semitic peoples of the Near East were what sociologists call “henotheists.” Each nation, sometimes even each clan or family, had its own belief system, its own religion, its own god, which it believed to be supreme over the gods of their neighbors. And nearly all of these religions believed their gods to be sort of tied to the land. If you moved from one place to another, you stopped worshiping the god of the first place and took up the worship of the god of your new residence. If a woman married outside of her family or tribe, married into a different clan, she would give up the religion of her family and take up that of her husband.

The People of Israel’s God, however, was different. Their God was not tied to a particular place. Their God was connected to a holy object, instead. God was associated with the Ark of the Covenant which they had created in the desert to contain God’s holy relics, the tablets of the Law given to Moses at Sinai (together with a pot of manna and Aaron’s staff). They carried the Ark with them, actually before them, as they traveled through the desert, as they crossed into the Holy Land, as they conquered the Canaanites and took possession of the country.

Initially, the Ark and its tent, called “the Tabernacle,” was set up at the Canaanite worship center in Shiloh.[5] It seems to have stayed there for about 300 years, until the Battle of Aphek, when the Philistines captured the Ark and took it away. On hearing about the capture, the priest Eli immediately died and his daughter-in-law, voicing the belief that God traveled with the Ark, exclaimed, “The glory has departed from Israel, for the ark of God has been captured.”[6] Capturing the Ark turned out not to have been a good idea for the Philistines; wherever they took it bad things happened. So, they sent it back to the Israelites who put in a place called Kiriath-Jearim where it stayed until King David brought it to Jerusalem.

We know that David wanted to build a permanent location for it; he wanted to build a Temple. But God refused. He told David, through the prophet Nathan,

Are you the one to build me a house to live in? I have not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent and a tabernacle.[7]

So David did not build the Temple, but he did build a a new Tabernacle in Jerusalem and brought the Ark there. We are told
David danced before the Lord with all his might;

David was girded with a linen ephod. So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet. . . . They brought in the ark of the Lord, and set it in its place, inside the tent that David had pitched for it.[8]

David was inspired to design the Temple, but he never built it.[9] His son Solomon was the one to do that.

So that is where we are this morning. The Temple has been finished, the sacred implements from David’s tent have been moved into it, the Ark of the Covenant has been installed into the Holy of Holies where only the High Priest is allowed to go, and Solomon offers this long prayer of dedication. In it he asks that very important question: “[W]ill God indeed dwell on the earth?” By building the Temple, Solomon sought to provide God a place to dwell on earth and, in so doing, he made the religion of his people more like that of their neighbors than it had been.

Remember those other religions had tied their gods to particular places whereas the God of Israel had moved about the countryside with his People. Now God had a permanent home, at least for a while. About 300 years later, in the latter half of the Seventh Century BCE, during what’s known as the Deuteronomic Reform, the Jews would centralize God’s worship in a the Temple, interpreting a decree in the Book of Deuteronomy to mean that the cultic part of their faith could only be performed in that place. Sure, people could gather anywhere for prayer, they could go synagogues for religious instruction, but they could only offer sacrifice and perform the cultic rituals in the Temple at Jerusalem. God had become tied to a place.

In the first years of the Sixth Century BCE, Babylonia conquered Jerusalem, took the Israelite leadership into captivity, and destroyed the Temple. The Ark disappeared and, to this day, no one knows where it is; the Ethiopian Orthodox Church claims to have it, but not many people believe that. During the Exile, the Jews refused to follow that earlier Semitic tradition in which you worshiped the god or gods of the place where you lived. Instead, they looked back to Jerusalem where the Temple had been, where God had become tied to a place. Psalm 137 reflects this:

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,
when we remembered you, O Zion.
* *
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
let my right hand forget its skill.
Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you,
if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.[10]

By the time of Jesus, Solomon’s question had been firmly answered for the Jews. Yes, said their religious leadership, God will dwell on earth, in this place, this Temple in Jerusalem. Even now, although Solomon’s Temple was destroyed and a second one built and destroyed, even though Jews live throughout the world and gather in many places to worship, they still look Jerusalem. The Wailing Wall, the western wall of the Temple Mount, the only part of the Temple complex to remain standing, is the holiest site in Judaism. God dwells in the Temple, even though it is in ruins.

In the birth of Jesus, however, God gave a different answer: God will not dwell in a building in a particular place. John’s Gospel begins with this affirmation, “The Word became flesh and lived among us.”[11] Will God indeed dwell on earth? Yes, God will live among God’s people as one of us. God lived among us as an infant who was born in Bethlehem and grew up to become a rabbi. God lived among us as an itinerant rabbi who had no home and was accused of being a rabble-rouser. God lived among us as a rabble-rouser condemned to die a criminal’s death. God lived among us as a criminal executed on a cross and risen to new life. God lives among us now.

On the night before he died, Jesus gathered with his friends for a Passover meal. There is some debate as to whether it was a Seder, the sacred meal of Judaism, but if it was he radically changed its nature, just as Solomon building the Temple eventually changed the nature of the religion of Israel. In the Passover meal, Jews become one with their ancestors; the Hebrews of the Passover story are brought present to them in the ritual of the Seder and they, in turn, live the Passover story through the meal, but the meal does not bring God into their midst. When Jesus took the bread of affliction and said, “This is my body,” when he took the cup of blessing and said, “This is my blood,” when he told his followers, “Do this when you remember me,” when he promised, “Where two or three gather, I am there,” Jesus gave us a power and an obligation unlike any given before to any people by God. We have the privilege to bring God present among us in the Bread and Wine of the Eucharist, the Christ’s Body and Blood. As one of our oldest Eucharistic Prayers says, in words which recall the promise of today’s gospel lesson, when we receive Holy Communion we are “filled with [God’s] grace and heavenly benediction, and made one body with [Christ], that he may dwell in us, and we in him.”[12]

Will God indeed dwell on earth? Yes, God will and God does dwell on earth. God dwells with the followers of Jesus when we gather and feed on his flesh and drink his blood, in word and sacrament, wherever that may be.

You all know, I’m sure, that on July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on moon. I’m pretty sure that if you were alive back then, you remember exactly where you were on that day at that moment when Armstrong stepped out of the lunar lander and became the first human being to walk on another world. What almost nobody knew until a long time afterward was that something else happened on the moon that day. Buzz Aldrin, a devout Christian and an ordained elder in his Presbyterian congregation, had taken a communion kit with some bread and wine to the moon. In the Presbyterian Church, the lay elders of the church who serve a function similar to our vestry members, are actually ordained by their congregation, and that ordination empowers them to bless the elements of Holy Communion. At the time Aldrin and Armstrong landed on the moon, the pastor and members of his Presbyterian church were watching TV but unlike most of us, they were also celebrating communion. Armstrong joined them across space, blessing the bread and wine on the moon and partaking there of Holy Communion.[13]

In the act of Holy Communion, we are joined with Christians everywhere and everywhen — with all those in every place who also take part in the Eucharistic feast, with all those who have done so at every Eucharist since Christ’s last supper with his disciples, with all those who will celebrate Communion in the future. We are joined with them because God dwells in all of us whenever we eat of Christ’s Body and drink of Christ’s Blood, no matter where we are.

Will God indeed dwell on the earth? Yes! Will God dwell on the moon? Yes! God dwells with God’s People who feast on the Word Incarnate, and God will dwell with us across time and across space wherever we may go. Amen.

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This homily was offered by the Rev. Dr. C. Eric Funston on the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost, August 25, 2024, to the people of St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Berea, Ohio, where Fr. Funston was guest presider and preacher.

The lessons for the service were 1 Kings 8:[1, 6, 10-11],22-30,41-43; Psalm 84; Ephesians 6:10-20; and St. John 6:56-69. These lessons can be read at The Lectionary Page.

The illustration is a re-creation of Solomon’s Temple from Free Bible Images

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Notes:
Click on footnote numbers to link back to associated text.

[1] 1 Kings 8:27 (NRSV)

[2] Ibid.

[3] Temple of Jerusalem, Encyclopedia Britannica, updated August 18, 2024, accessed August 24, 2024

[4] 1 kings 8:23 (NRSV)

[5] Joshua 18:1

[6] 1 Samuel 4:22 (NRSV)

[7] 2 Samuel 7:5-6 (NRSV)

[8] 2 Samuel 6:15, 17 (NRSV)

[9] 1 Chronicles 28:11-19

[10] Psalm 137:1,56 (The Book of Common Prayer 1979, page 792)

[11] John 1:14 (NRSV)

[12] The Holy Eucharist, Rite 1, The Book of Common Prayer 1979, page 336

[13] Buzz Aldrin, When Buzz Aldrin Took Communion on the Moon, Guideposts, October 1970, accessed August 24, 2024

Of Politics and Fences – Sermon for RCL Proper 25A

What does it mean to say “Jesus is Lord”? The question arises because of today’s dialog between Jesus and some of the Pharisees about the relative importance of the Commandments. Jesus responds to a lawyer’s question about the greatest commandment and then follows his response with a question about the lordship of the Messiah, the anticipated “Son of David.”

Jesus very rarely claimed this title for himself and when he did it was generally in the sort of oblique way we see in today’s exchange. He doesn’t come right out and say “I am the Lord,” but he hints at it. Usually, however, it is applied to him by others. In daily usage among First Century Jews, addressing someone as “Lord,” was probably meant as an honorific synonymous with “Rabbi,” “Teacher,” “Master,” and so forth, the way we might use “Doctor,” “Professor,” or address a judge as “Your Honor.”

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Of Persistent Love – Sermon for RCL Proper 22A

This is the second of three Sundays during which our lessons from the Gospel according to Matthew tell the story of an encounter between Jesus and the temple authorities. Jesus has come into Jerusalem, entered the Temple and had a somewhat violent confrontation with “the money changers and … those who sold doves,”[1] gone back to Bethany, and then returned to the Temple the next day. In last week’s lesson, “the chief priests and the elders of the people” demanded that he explain himself, asking, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?”[2] In good rabbinic fashion, Jesus answers their question with a question and, when they cannot answer his question, he declines to answer theirs.

But, Jesus being Jesus, he doesn’t leave it at that: he goes on to tell three parables. First, a story about two sons, one of whom refuses to do as his father instructs but later changes his mind and obeys, the other of whom agrees to do as he is told but then fails to do so. The second, today’s story about a vineyard. And the third, a story about a wedding feast where the invited guests decline attendance so passers-by are dragged in off the streets, but one man (who fails to wear an appropriate wedding garment) is tossed back out into a place of perdition. We heard the first last week; we’ll hear the third next week. Today, we have heard “the Parable of the Wicked Tenants.”

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Of Jesus and Racial Slurs – Sermon for RCL Proper 15A

Heavenly Father,

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered.

We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,

God of our weary years,

God of our silent tears,

Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;

Thou who hast by Thy might,

Led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Amen.[1]

Last week, Evelyn and I were in Topeka, Kansas, visiting our son and his family. On Friday afternoon we were at loose ends while the grandkids were at school and their parents were at work, so we decided to visit the Brown vs. Board of Education National Monument. This memorial is a small museum in what was the segregated, all-black Monroe Elementary School south of Topeka’s downtown. I’m glad we went to see it. It is a remarkable place, and a fascinating if sobering reminder of how bad racism has been in this country and how much further we still have to go to remove that stain from our nation.

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Soil Is People! – Sermon for RCL Proper 10A

This is an old and familiar story, a comfortable story if you will … the parable of the sower.[1] We’ve all heard it before and we know what it means because Jesus takes the time to explain it. Jesus calls it “the parable of the sower,” but it really ought to be called “the parable of the soils.” The parable presents the variety of responses to the good news of the kingdom of heaven. Jesus uses the metaphor of the different types of soil into which the sower’s seed is cast. That “soil,” he explains, is people.

Some seed that falls on the path which, says Jesus, represents those who hear the good news but do not understand it. Because of the hardness or dullness of their hearts, the evil one, who resists God’s purposes snatches it away. It is not clear, in the parable or in Jesus’ explanation, why the devil seems to be more powerful in influencing the human heart than is God’s word, but then that is not the point of the parable. That, perhaps, is a teaching Jesus meant to leave for another day.

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Pin the Tail on the Donkey – Sermon for RCL Proper 9A

A clergy colleague suggested recently that this Sunday’s epistle reading[1] makes a lot more sense if you add ‘Dear Diary’ at the start. I think he’s right. For seven chapters of his letter to the Romans, Paul the erudite and well-educated Greek-speaking rabbi has been going on at length about the Law and how it does or does not apply to Jews and Gentiles, how it does or does not apply to members of the church, and so forth. And then, all of a sudden, he’s no longer the learned Jewish Christian apologist; he’s just a guy complaining about life. He begins writing in the first person and bemoaning his inability to carry through with his best intentions. It’s like, “Dear Diary, I really screwed up and I don’t understand why!”

But this passage is not in Paul’s diary, it’s in his letter to the Romans, which the church has preserved as part of Holy Scripture, so here we are reading it during worship and trying to figure out just what the heck Paul is talking about! Is he, autobiographically and symbolically, describing a believer’s pre-conversion state? That is, does the misery described in these verses represent a person’s life before receiving the grace of Christ’s death, resurrection, and ascension? Or, alternatively, is he presenting himself as the stereotypical believer after receiving the grace of baptism? Does the conundrum Paul describes characterize the life of faith? And if he couldn’t get it right, who could?

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What To Do With the Akedah? – Sermon for RCL Proper 8A

What are we to do with our first lesson today? The story of the testing of Abraham and the binding of Isaac, called the Akedah in Hebrew, “exudes darkness and mystery, and it brings before us a thousand questions, most of which have no answers.”[1] In the late 1300s an unknown English author penned a short treatise entitled The Cloud of Unknowing basically arguing that such “darkness and mystery,” and the thousands of unanswerable questions they bring, are really fundamental to our relationship with God. “[O]f God Himself can no man think,” he writes, “He may well be loved, but not thought. By love may He be gotten and holden; but by thought never.”[2]

The Spanish mystical poet, St. John of the Cross, made a similar point in his poem known as The Dark Night of the Soul. He wrote in the first verse:

Once in the dark of night,?
Inflamed with love and yearning, I arose?
(O coming of delight!)?
And went, as no one knows,
?When all my house lay long in deep repose….[3]

“In this first stanza,” John himself said, the soul relates the way and manner which it followed “to attain to living the sweet and delectable life of love with God; and it says that this going forth from itself and from all things was a ‘dark night,’ by which . . . is here understood purgative contemplation.”[4] This “purgative contemplation” has been called a darkening of the will, intellect, and senses,[5] or more simply a “remain[ing] silent, …not thinking of anything.”[6]

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God’s Faith, Not Ours — Sermon for the 7th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12C) — July 24, 2022

“Name this child.” That’s what I say to parents of infant baptismal candidates as I take their children from them. The words are not actually written in the baptismal service of The Book of Common Prayer as they are in some other traditions’ liturgies, but there is a rubric that says, “Each candidate is presented by name to the Celebrant . . . .”[1] so asking for the child’s name is a practical way of seeing that done. It’s practical, but it’s also a theological statement.

There is a common religious belief found in nearly all cultures that knowing the name of a thing or a person gives one power over that thing or person. One finds this belief among African and North American indigenous tribes, as well as in ancient Egyptian, Vedic, and Hindu traditions; it is also present in all three of the Abrahamic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

The naming we do at baptism echoes the naming that takes place in Judaism when a male infant is circumcised on the eighth day after his birth. In that service, called the brit milah or bris, the officiating mohel prays, “Our God and God of our fathers, preserve this child for his father and mother, and his name in Israel shall be called ________”[2] and the prayer continues that, by his naming, the infant will be enrolled in the covenant of God with Israel. A similar thing is done when a girl is named in the ceremony called zeved habat or simchat bat, the “gift (or celebration) of the daughter” on the first sabbath following her birth.[3] With the name given at baptism, the church says to its newest member, “This is who you are: washed in the waters of baptism, sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked as Christ’s own forever,”[4] a brother or sister in the church, a fellow member of the Body of Christ, an adopted child of God the Father.

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Salt of the Earth: Sermon for the 5th Sunday after Epiphany, Year A, 9 February 2020

A Buddhist tells this story:

Once upon a time, there was a tavern owner in Mumbai. He had a hard-working bartender, who was always trying to be helpful by inventing new ways of doing things. One hot day, the tavern owner wanted to go to the beach. So he left the bartender in charge while he was gone. The bartender had noticed that many customers ate a little salt after drinking their liquor. He didn’t know why, but not wishing to show his ignorance, he never asked. He thought it might be that the liquor needed salt to taste good, and he wondered why taverns didn’t just add salt to their liquor. He decided that if he did so, the business would make much higher profits, and the tavern owner would be very pleased. So he added salt to all the liquor, not knowing that the actual reason the customers ate the salt was to chase away the aftertaste of the liquor. To his surprise, when the customers came to the tavern and drank the salty booze, they immediately spit it out; they left and went to a different bar. When the owner returned from his day at the beach, he found his tavern empty, and all his liquor ruined.[1]

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Unpacking Scripture’s Cultural Baggage: Sermon for RCL Proper 7, Track 2, Year C (23 June 2019)

This is a special Sunday for me. Friday marked the 28th anniversary of my ordination as a priest in the Episcopal Church. It was on Sunday, June 23, 1991, that I celebrated my first mass. So I am grateful to you and to Fr. George for the privilege of an altar at which to celebrate the Holy Mysteries and a pulpit from which to preach the gospel on this, my anniversary Sunday.

Now that I am retired, I am filling part of my time studying Irish. In the world of Irish studies, I am what is known as a foghlaimeoir, which is to say “an Irish learner.” The truth is that I have been a foghlaimeoir for over eleven years, but I have not yet progressed to the level of Gaeilgeoir, that is, “an Irish speaker.” Studying Irish is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done; it is both fascinating and maddening, and I think that among the reasons for that are the cultural assumptions which underly the language.

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