First, St. Paul, in his letter to the church in Corinth, warns us that we’re going to have to think about ourselves, our parish, and our world in a new and unconventional way. God in Jesus Christ is a strange God, a God of paradox, a God whose ways often seem scandalous. In following a God who comes to us as a frail human being, born in poverty and dead on a criminal’s cross, we know that fame, success, and brilliance are not what we can expect. We know that God’s strength--a strength so powerful that it eventually defeats sin and death—is a strength that looks to us like weakness. It is strength born of a wisdom that looks like foolishness. In following such a God, we can be assured that our most reasonable expectations will be turned upside down.
Just look at the way that Jesus blesses us. If I asked you to name our blessings at St. Ambrose in 2022, what would you say? Paying off the mortgage? A gift from St. Michael’s that bought us a needed heater? Meeting in person together again and hugging at the peace? New friends? A warm welcome? Greater recognition in the community? A successful Interfaith service? Inspiring music from the choir? You’ll see photos of all of these things later as you look at our slide show of photos from 2022. These are all heart-lifting things. They’re the kind of blessings that you post on social media with the hashtag #blessed. They are the moments that you put on a slideshow. They’re things for which we can be thankful. But they are not the blessings that Jesus offers us in our Gospel lesson, are they?
Jesus does bless his followers—but not to encourage their successes or to elicit their gratitude. Jesus blesses, or honors, those without blessing and honor. He might as well say to us: “Blessed are you when you can’t pay your bills.” “Blessed are you when you are tired of trying.” “Blessed are you when there aren’t enough people to do what needs to be done.” “Blessed are you when you are sitting at home with Covid.” “How honored you are when the world’s injustices weigh you down.” “How honored you are when your friends laugh at you for believing in God.” Can you imagine putting a photo of empty pews on our Facebook page, with the hashtag #blessed?! Or photos of the rotting wood around our windows? Or closeups of the dead mice in the empty nursery?!
Of course not! But it is in our anxiety and despair that Jesus comes to bless us, to lift us from shame to honor, to prepare us for his reign when all that is wrong with the world will be made right. Before Jesus tells his gathered followers how they are to live, he first blesses them where they are. To the persecuted, the hungry, the sick, the downtrodden, the despairing, to all the suffering straggle of people looking to him for hope, Jesus first gives blessing—before he gives instruction.
As we examine our parish and ourselves, trying to find out what Jesus is calling us to do, may we remember that, before we try to do anything, we are blessed; we are honored; we are beloved. Especially when things aren’t going the way we want them to. In God’s wild and topsy-turvy way, what is cast down, will be raised up. What is broken, will be made whole. How, you might ask? We are part of God’s plan for the blessing and healing of the world! You, me, and St. Ambrose.
The prophet Micah lays out pretty clearly how that is going to happen in the famous passage we hear today. Micah is preaching in the midst of a world gone awry. The rich and powerful exploit the marginalized for their own gain. War is on the horizon. Corruption is rampant. Micah describes how those in power, “tear the skin from my people” and “break their bones in pieces.” They take bribes and ignore what is just, “doing evil with both hands.” And the religious leaders sanction their actions, promising that the status quo is the will of God.[1] Sound familiar?
In such a world, God has a calling for God’s people, and it’s not doing their duty within the established religious structures. It’s not offering elaborate sacrifices to God in worship. Might we say today ... It’s not building bigger and more beautiful churches; it’s not creating more inspiring worship; it’s not hiring more staff; it’s not getting more people in the pews. It’s not even praying for hours a day or giving an enormous part of your income to St. Ambrose. “It was told you, [people,] what is good and what the Lord demands of you—only doing justice and loving kindness and walking humbly with your God.”[2]
God is giving us action words here: doing, loving, and walking. They are ongoing action words, too, not just something we do once and then sit back down. We keep on doing; we keep on loving; we keep on walking.
And what is it that we keep on doing? We keep doing justice. Not nodding our heads for justice, not loving justice, but doing it. All the time. Getting personally involved wherever people are deprived of their dignity, wherever human rights are being violated, wherever creation itself is being unjustly treated. We keep on doing justice, over and over again.
How do we keep on loving? We keep on pouring out God’s own loving-kindess, the love that never stops, that offers itself up sacrificially, that flows out to every creature, no matter what. We keep on loving when we don’t feel like loving, when we’re tired of loving, when others are unlovable. There’s no age limit or energy limit on loving.
And how do we keep walking? We keep on walking humbly—not putting ourselves down, but staying open to God’s weird wisdom. Listening. We keep on walking, open to changing our minds, open to changing course, constantly discerning. We keep on walking when our knees hurt, when the trail climbs, when the path is clear and when the trail markers disappear. We keep on walking humbly, together with our God.
In this year of intense self-examination and revitalization as a parish, let’s remember that Jesus honors and blesses our needs and shortcomings; that God’s action among us will likely look like foolishness or even failure; and that what God requires of us is to keep on doing justice, loving kindness, and walking with God, come what may.
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