Proper 4, Year C
1 Kings 18:20-21,
(22-29), 30-39
Psalm 96
Galatians 1:1-12
Luke 7:1-10
O God, your
never-failing providence sets in order all things both in heaven and
earth: Put away from us, we entreat you, all hurtful things, and give us
those things which are profitable for us; through Jesus Christ our
Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for
ever and ever. Amen.
Despite
all of the blood and gore in our first lesson, the image that haunts me is the
one of the limping Israelites. First, the prophet Elijah chides the people,
“How long will you go limping with two different opinions? If the Lord is God,
follow him; but if [it’s the god Baal that you want,] follow him!” Then, even
after the altars are set up for Elijah’s great test, the people are still
limping around Baal’s altar, around and around and around, hoping that their
god will come to them.
Limping is something that I know
about. After two months with a sprained ankle, I've gotten quite good at it. Physically,
we limp because of an injury. We limp as a result of pain, because something is
broken. We limp when we are trying to go forward despite imbalance. It’s the
same thing in our spiritual lives.
For example, I would very much like to
develop a deeper relationship with God in prayer … but I would also like to
accomplish every single one of the tasks on my long to-do list, the list that keeps
me feeling worthy. So I limp around as if my praying foot is too tender to
place solidly on the ground. “Stomp,” goes my strong productive foot. “Tiptoe,”
goes my weak prayer-time foot. “Wobble,” goes my Christian walk.
I would also truly like to develop a deeper
relationship with God by making the sacrifices that would help me to take
better care of God’s creation. But at the same time, I love the convenience and comfort of
my energy-guzzling life. So I limp around as if my caring foot is too delicate
to use. “Stomp,” goes my strong carbon footprint. “Tiptoe,” goes my weak effort
to save energy. “Wobble,” goes my Christian walk.
Of course I would also like to develop a
deeper relationship with God by loving my neighbor more fully. We know that’s what
God wants us to do, right? But at the same time, I want to keep my money and my time for
myself. What if I won’t have enough? So I limp around as if my loving foot is
somewhat shriveled. “Stomp,” goes my strong fear-foot. “Tiptoe,” goes my weak generosity.
“Wobble,” goes my Christian walk.
I have been wobbling for so long, that it
feels natural most of the time. Round and round and round the altar I go,
limping and yet crying out, “O God, answer me! Why don’t you show up in my
life!”
Sometimes I do notice my limping gait. I get disgusted with myself then,
and I try to do something about it. But my methods are usually too harsh. For
you Downton Abbey fans, I remind myself of Mr. Bates. He got so tired and ashamed of
his limp that he went out and bought a gruesome cage-like contraption that was
supposed to lengthen his leg by pulling on it. He strapped it on under his trousers
and kept it a secret from his friends. The straps bit into his skin, however,
and caused him terrible pain as an infection set in. He could hardly go about
his day because of the pain, but he was determined to be strong. He was
determined to fix his limp all by himself, to master it. If it hadn’t been for the
intervention of an equally stubborn friend, he might have died trying to fix
his own limping gait.
We can all be like Mr. Bates, strapping on
harsh, cruel ways in order to appear strong in our spiritual lives. We can
strap on a loud, strident voice, pretending to be sure of ourselves. We can strap on rigid certainties that we think will
keep us straight. We can strap on intolerance and hatred for ourselves or for
others. But all that these wicked contraptions do are to eat away at and infect
the very parts of ourselves that we are trying to save.
What’s the answer then, for our limping ways?
Elijah seems to solve the problem by calling everyone together to remind them
of the Covenant, of God’s promise to them as a people. “Come closer to me,”
Elijah calls out. And the limping people of Israel huddle in. When he has their
attention, Elijah builds an altar that brings together the 12 tribes of Israel.
He prepares a well-known liturgy. And then he involves everyone in the common
task of hauling water. He sets them in motion. Finally, with everyone gathered,
everyone participating, he prays to the God who has made an everlasting
covenant with Israel. And God appears to them, knocking their limping feet out
from under them all.
In ancient times, burnt offerings were a
meal prepared for God—a meal that would tempt an almighty God to eat with us
human beings. These sacrifices were not all about killing and suffering. The
goal of these sacrifices was a joyful one—joyful fellowship with God, brought
about through a meal. It was like preparing a fine dinner for an honored guest.[1]
Seen in this way, the sacrifice in I Kings
sounds rather like the Christian community joined around the Eucharistic table,
doesn’t it? The altar, the liturgical actions, the stories and songs that
remind us who we are in God’s eyes? The meal shared in communion with God and one
another? The words that recall to us God’s promise to be with us always? Us,
limping up to receive the gift of God’s presence in our cupped hands? The difference is that in
Christ, God is the one preparing the sacrifice for us—in the birth, life, and
death of Jesus. God is the one who is carefully preparing a life-giving
sacrifice for our nourishment, for our transformation into new life.
The Good News, the true Gospel that Paul
is so desperate that the Galatians preserve, is that we are not expected to fix
our own limps—nor are we unloved by God because of them. Our only task is to
trust in that love, to respond with praise and thanksgiving for the new life
that we have been given in Christ.[2] After all, if we truly
trust that we are loved, the enormity of it will bring us to our knees in prayer. If
we truly trust that God loves Creation, we will take a stand for its care. If
we truly trust that God loves every human being, we will hold out our hands to each brother and sister in the wonder of it all.
Last week, busily preparing for the parish
picnic, I suddenly felt a boost as I zipped around the building. I paused to
wonder why I felt so industrious all of a sudden—and I realized that it was
because I wasn’t limping anymore. Both of my feet were bearing weight together,
and the pain was gone. Even though my ankle had been healing, my mind had been stuck in the
dull old pace of brokenness. Suddenly aware of healing, I began to fly on the wings of praise and
gratitude. I had just needed to remember the promise of how it feels to walk in
wholeness.
Today, take, eat, and remember the Promise.
.
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