Repair God's House
A Homily
The following is a sermon I delivered on Sunday, 21 July 2024, at St. Luke’s Church, Forest Hills NY. It has been lightly edited for reading clarity. The readings for that Sunday were 2 Samuel 7:1-14a, Ephesians 2:11-22, and Mark 6:30-34, 53-56.
Thank you, Father Bo, for graciously allowing a rank amateur to invade your pulpit; and thanks also to my Franciscan Brother, Deacon Joe, for “encouraging me”—repeatedly—to do so. I will just note here that he has conveniently taken vacation while I was scheduled to speak. All that follows, however, are my own thoughts and speculations, so please don’t blame either of them for whatever horrors come out of my mouth.
I enjoyed putting together this scriptural reflection, but I do not envy clergy who do this every week. I had over a month to think about today’s readings, and to be honest, it took almost all of that time for my thoughts to jell. Even now, I can think of all sorts of other ways I might have approached them.
But, oh well—you’re stuck with this one, I guess.
Many years ago, a priest told me about a sermon-writing cheat code. Look at that day’s Collect, he told me, and it will point you towards the lessons the readings are meant to teach. Since the adoption of the Revised Common Lectionary, this is, perhaps, less reliable, but never mind. Nothing to see here… moving along…
Right then. Let’s take a look. Today’s Collect reads:
Almighty God, the fountain of all wisdom, you know our necessities before we ask and our ignorance in asking: Have compassion on our weakness, and mercifully give us those things which for our unworthiness we dare not, and for our blindness we cannot ask; through the worthiness of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.
Alright, I get it. I ask things of God, but He already knows what I need, so I’m being ignorant just in asking for them. I’m blind to these things, so I can’t ask for what I need. Even if could ask, I’m not worthy enough. I don’t dare. But, because our God is a God of compassion and mercy, he gave us his only Son as proof of his love. Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, John’s Revelation tells us, and that worthiness is enough for all of us, for all time.
In today’s reading from Samuel, David wants to build God a house of cedar, like the one David himself lives in. God answers, “Are you the one to build me a house to live in?” David is not worthy. But, because God is merciful and compassionate, He assures David that not only will God’s house be built eventually, but that David’s house (meaning his dynastic house) will be the one to do it, a promise fulfilled by David’s son, Solomon.
Moving on to Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, worthiness is again at issue. Two groups within the Christian community in Ephesus are at odds with each other over what is required to be a “real” Christian (funny how we still have that same argument 2000 years later!). Those coming from a Jewish background insist on following Jewish law (circumcision in particular), but gentile converts coming from a Greco-Roman background see all that as outlandish and unnecessary. Who is worthy of being called followers of Christ?
Paul sides with the converts regarding strict adherence to Jewish law, but he reminds them that it’s not because practices like circumcision are bad, it’s because Christ has sacrificed his own flesh on their behalf—that bit of flesh removed in circumcision as a symbol of God’s covenant pales in comparison.
Hey, this Collect hack seems to be working, eh? Everything tied up in a nice bow, easy-peasy.
Oh. Wait. I haven’t tied Mark’s gospel into all this yet. Let’s just circle back and…
… Here is where you need to mentally insert that vinyl record scratch sound that every TV show used to use when reality has just bitten somebody in the posterior. Because I’m way off track. None of this is really about worthiness per se. It’s about a building.
Trust me, I am going somewhere with this…
One of the seminal events of the Franciscan movement concerns a building. In the year 1205, Francis was in the countryside just outside Assisi when he stopped to pray at San Damiano, an old, half-ruined and neglected church. Inside, he saw an icon of Christ Crucified, a large Byzantine-style rood cross hanging above the apse. As he prayed before it, the figure of Jesus spoke to him, saying, “Francis, go and repair my church which, as you can see, is falling into ruins.”
So, Francis began to do just that, by himself, stone by stone. After some time, another person joined him. And then another, and another… It took a while for Francis to realize this, but in fact he was building two things: San Damiano, and a new religious order. And as that order continued to grow and grow, the meaning of Christ’s words because clearer: Jesus wasn’t really talking about the small “c” church of San Damiano, he wanted Francis to rebuild the capital “C” Church, which in the early 13th Century had fallen into considerable spiritual disrepair.
Like Francis, King David thought of God’s house as a physical building, but God had already been building a more durable house. He reminds David:
I have been with you wherever you went.
I took you from the pasture.
I made you a prince over my people.
I have cut off all your enemies.
I will make for you a great name.
And moreover, the Lord will make you a house.
There’s a double meaning here, because David’s dynastic house, will, of course, eventually build the First Temple, and also from that dynastic house will come the Messiah, our Lord Jesus Christ. But God’s building project is also David himself: “And moreover, the Lord will make YOU a house.” [Emphasis added]
Paul, in attempting to reconcile the rival factions in Ephesus, is also building God’s house. But this is not a house with walls dividing believers along sectarian lines.
Rather, it is a house built…
...with Christ Jesus Himself as the cornerstone. In Him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you are also built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.
So, what do we use to build our spiritual house, that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens? And here, at last, we come to the reading from Mark.
Like Jesus, we use compassion:
As He went ashore, He saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them […]. [The sick] begged Him that they might touch even the fringe of His cloak; and all who touched it were healed.
Compassion, by which we express God’s love to others, is delicate and fragile. It needs to be protected and nurtured. It needs a house, a building in which to live. That building is each of us, with foundations mortared together with Jesus’ very own blood, and a structure framed with the words and example of his life.
And, like every building, it needs to be maintained.
Go and repair it.