A Time of Uncertainty

Reflections on Luke 12:49-56

I’m still high from the performances of Godspell this weekend — they were amazing, and it was so fun. So. I thought I’d share with you a few pieces of sermon advice I got this weekend.

You should sing your sermon!
Maybe make your sermon short, cause it is so hot.

Sum it up to say, it’s been a really good week.

All summer long, we’ve had haze and we all know why. We’ve had fewer of the clear, blue sky days that we’ve come to expect as part of Michigan summers, and those with allergies and breathing difficulties have had really a tough time. As of August 13, there were 700 active fires in Canada and more than 18.5 million acres have already burned this year, making this year the second-worst year on record.

Fire doesn’t seem like a good thing to me right now, and it’s with those eyes and ears that I’m reading these texts.

Fire, brought to the earth by Jesus, kindled. And then division, so much division, and scorching heat. And, finally, a Jesus rebuke about how not only are his listeners hypocrites, but they also don’t know how to interpret the present time.

Ugh.

The truth is, I don’t have any idea how to interpret the present time and if I were there, I would have just pretended I knew what Jesus was talking about.

As someone who wasn’t well-versed in the popular culture in my childhood, like movies, TV shows etc, which was one of the most present, lowest-common-denominator conversations that all children had when I was small, I learned quickly that it was better to pretend I understood than to ask the context and face embarrassment, which feels a whole lot rebuke to me even now.

I don’t still understand what Jesus is talking about.

This week I looked at commentaries, because sometimes these can unlock some meaning where it’s otherwise opaque. I even talked with my friend, a Divinity school professor about it. We talked about how even the commentaries written by the best scholars call this an obscure text, and that usually they say that the “fire” that Jesus is talking about is thought to be his awful death, the horror of the cross, and the “fire” of experiencing the pain of persecution.

But there are other fires, lots of them.

-I remembered yesterday, watching Godspell, about the fire that John the baptizer talked about, about how he who was coming after him would baptize with fire.

-I remembered one of my favorite numbers from the Messiah, about the refiner's fire that will purify the priests, sons of Levi.

-I remembered that old song about how it only takes a spark.

-I remembered Notre-Dame burning down and the spire falling.

-I remembered about the crazy and amazing women medieval mystics who experience the burning of fire until they open their mouths and say what it is that God wants them to tell the world.

-I remembered how lovely it is to have a fire on a cool Michigan night, wrapped up in blankets.

-I remembered the story of how the Greek god Prometheus brings fire to humans spurning the direct order of Zeus and so was punished forever in identical repetition until Hercules releases him.

-I remembered how prairies thrives in fire, as the invasive plants and their roots get burned up and the natives come back up again.

-I remembered the fire that happened during COVID here at St. Andrew’s, how close we were to having our building burn down, caught only because we were there that day, right before Ash Wednesday, offering Ashes-to-Go, Covid style.

-I remembered being a child at the Mississippi levee, having a fire, and hitting a big log in the middle of the fire and sparks flying.

But I’m no closer to understanding the fire in our Gospel text than I was. I could go on, but I’m not sure it’s helpful.

Yet even the weather patterns don’t move like they used to. Sure, it’s usually still from the west to the east, and it’s still usually red in the night, sailor’s delight, but there’s a part of this whole equation that is missing. When it rains, it pours. In Texas over that 4th of July weekend, it rained enough in that small part of the Guadalupe river basin to cover the whole state of Texas with 4 inches of rain.

Maybe it’s not just me that doesn’t know. I think it’s all of us.

In the communities I grew up in, uncertainty was a weakness, but I humbly stand before you today with this truth. I think the time for certainty is past. Not about the real things like loving God and neighbor, not about those deep things that we know, like how God is God and we are not, but about the details, the “rest of the stuff” so to speak.

It can be upsetting and unsettling. It’s hard for those of us who understood that Jesus is the Rock (although I still think this) and unchanging and all of that that I learned. We sometimes call this work deconstruction, but I wonder if this isn’t a lifelong work, one that changes us and then changes us again and again. Because while Jesus might be still be our rock, the ways that I notice the kindom of God unfolding in the world continue to change and unfold and sometimes they seem outright frightening.

The work of God is strange, odd, and overwhelmingly beautiful, but only if you recognize it.

But if you don’t, it can look like a fire ravaging the landscape, burned to a crisp.

It can look like division and confusion.

It can look like a changing God, like a fire out of control.

It can look like a hazy day, where nothing is clear.

So besides loving God and our neighbor, what are we to do?

It is not the time for sitting on the sidelines, I’m sure of that. In this time and place of division we must be followers of Jesus before we’re anything else. We must be seeking first the kindom of God. We must be doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly with our God. We must be enjoying this beautiful world that God has given us, always mindful that it is a gift and a delight to be cherished and shared. We need to laugh, to find those places where we can just delight. We must be looking for those fingerprints of God, for that strange and odd work of convergence and hope, for those quick glimpses of clarity in the midst.

I recognize there’s nothing more Episcopalian than ending a sermon with a poem, but this one nails it.

It’s from Padraig O Tauma and his book In the Shelter. Don’t let the title underwhelm you — it’s called “Narrative Theology #2.”

I used to need to know
The end of every story
but these days I only
need the start to get me going.

God is the crack
where the story begins.

We are the crack
where the story gets interesting.

We are the choice of
where to begin —
the person going out?
the stranger going in?

God is the fracture,
and the ache in your voice,
God is the story
flavored with choice.

God is the pillar of salt
full of pity
accusing God
for the sulphuric city.

God is the woman who bleeds
and who touches.

We are the story
of courage or blushes.

God is the story
of whatever works.

God is the twist at the end
and the quirks.

We are the start,
and we’re at the center,
we are the characters,
narrators, inventors.

God is the bit
that we can’t explain —
maybe the healing
maybe the pain.

We are the bit
that God can’t explain —
maybe the harmony
maybe the strain.

God is the plot,
and we are the writers,
the story of winners
and the story of fighters,
the story of love,
and the story of rupture,
the story of stories,
the story without structure.