Their names were Curtis Adams, Mager Bradley, George Davis, Jr., Thomas Forte, Robert Green, James Leatherwood, Nathaniel Moss, George Motten, William Pritchett, James Stewart, and Due Turner. They came from Alabama, Mississippi, West Virginia, Texas, Arkansas. Thrown together by war, they were members of the 333rd Field Artillery Battalion, a segregated African American unit serving in Belgium during World War II. When the Germans began what came to be known as “the Battle of the Bulge” in December 1944, the 333rd stayed in place to support the withdrawal of the mostly white infantry regiments around them. These eleven men were captured by the Waffen-SS in a forest near the town of Wereth; they were tortured and murdered, and their bodies left unburied. Although the fact and nature of their sacrifice was well documented, it was never officially recognized by the U.S. government until 2017.[1]
I asked ChatGPT’s image generator, “What sort of image would you create to illustrate the concept of a dead nation?” and this is what it produced.
Nations die. Just like people. The reasons nations die are as varied and numerous as the reasons people die. Some nations die because they just get too unwieldy to survive, like the Roman Empire. It simply became too large to manage, which led to a fatal weakening of its political structure and military capability, and ultimately to its collapse. Some die because of internal rot. The German Weimar Republic, for example, died when its president appointed a madman named Adolf Hitler to be its chancellor, and he in turn dismantled its democratic institutions. The Weimar Republic died, replaced by the Third Reich, which was supposed to last a thousand years, but it died in the most common way nations die – because they are conquered.
There is an aphorism about preaching that says the preacher “must hold the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other.” This is often attributed to the influential Swiss theologian Karl Barth, whom Time Magazine in the 1960s called “the greatest living Protestant theologian.” Truth is, however, that he never really said it. What he actually said, in an interview with Time in 1963, was, “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.”[1] In other words, try to understand events in the world through the lens of Scripture and take guidance from it as you seek to live in this world.
As I followed the news media the past few weeks, two stories stood out for me. One was the witness of the women who are the surivors of Jeffrey Epstein’s human trafficking enterprise. The other was the tale of the US Women’s Ice Hockey team who won the Olympic gold medal but were nonetheless made the butt of a joke by the president. It seemed to me that John’s story of Jesus’ long conversation with the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well offers us a lens through which to view these news stories. So I started making notes for a sermon along those lines.
I assume that everyone here has seen A Christmas Story?[1] It’s hard to live in the Cleveland area and not to know about the 1983 cult classic Christmas movie, and by now, with the Turner movie channel running it as a marathon every Christmas, to have seen it. Do you remember the character “Scut” Farkus? That was the bully who, accompanied by his toady Grover Dill, made Ralphie’s life miserable. Until, that is, Ralphie had simply had enough and exploded, knocked Scut down into the snow, and gave him a bloody nose. This morning, I’m going to try to convince you that that’s sort of what’s happening in today’s gospel lesson.
A rather standard way of preaching the Temptations of Christ is to say that Satan’s point is to raise doubts about whether Jesus is who he thinks he is by casting doubt on his relationship with God, and that Jesus’ rejections of the temptations “prove his identity as God’s divine and beloved son.”[2] I’m probably a heretic, but I don’t think that’s the point of this story at all; that’s not what this episode is about.
“You are the light of the world. … [L]et your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”[1]
Last week, I read this story on Facebook:
I own a small bakery. Business has been slow. Rent is up. I was thinking about closing. Last Friday, a teenager came in. He looked nervous. He counted out change for a cookie. He was short 50 cents. “It’s okay,” I said. “Take it.” He ate it at a table, looking at his math homework. I walked over. “Quadratic equations?” He nodded. “I don’t get it.” I sat down and helped him for 20 minutes. He got it. He left smiling. The next day, he came back with two friends. They bought cookies. The day after that, five kids came. Apparently, he told the school, “The lady at the bakery helps with homework.” Now, my bakery is the after-school hang-out spot. It’s loud. It’s messy. There are backpacks everywhere, Yesterday, I found a note in the tip jar. It was wrapped around a $20 bill. “Thanks for helping my son pass math. A Mom.” I’m not closing the bakery. I think I finally found my purpose. It’s not cookies. It’s community.
This baker is a light shining before others. I think that both Jesus and the prophet Isaiah would have approved of this baker.
I’m sure you’re all familiar with Howard Thurman’s meditation entitled The Work of Christmas:
When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.[1]
This year I think I would have to suggest that there is one more task to add: to preserve democracy.
When a couple gets married in the Episcopal Church, our canon law requires that they spend some time in pre-marital counseling, usually with the priest who will preside at their wedding. That didn’t happen in this case. I’ve spent no time helping P____ and L____ to build a strong foundation for their marriage; we haven’t talked about the theology of Holy Matrimony, or about communication, or conflict resolution skills, or any of the key issues of married life like dealing with finances, children, and extended family. No, my colleague the Rev. Lisa _______ did all of that. She was supposed preside today, but a member of her family announced that they were getting married today, so she asked me to step in, so it’s my privilege to witness and bless P_____ and L_____’s union.
In any event, I know that Mother Lisa has been over all of that with them, so this sermon is not for them. It’s for you, their family and friends; it’s about their marriage, but it’s for you.
If you were raised in the church you probably went through confirmation classes at some point and had to learn some bits of the catechism. You may remember learning about the Sacraments; there are seven of them. Holy Baptism and Holy Communion are the big ones, the ones Christ himself established. Then there are five others which the church created under, we believe, the guidance of the Holy Spirit. One of those five is the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony.
Do you all know what a tort is? Tort … T-O-R-T … no E on the end; I’m not talking about those wonderful little German or Austrian pastries. A tort is a civil wrong that causes harm to another person, resulting in legal liability for the person who commits the wrong. You leave a puddle of milk on the floor of your grocery store knowing it’s there, then someone slips in it and injures themselves: you have committed a tort. You speed through a stop sign, collide with another car, and injure the driver: you’ve not only broken the law, you’ve committed a tort.
A million years ago when I was in law school studying the law of torts with Professor Bill Lynch of blessed memory, I was introduced to the superhero of Anglo-American civil jurisprudence: the ordinary, reasonably prudent person, often called “ORPman”. ORPman’s super power, as you can tell from his name, is ordinary, reasonable prudence. His conduct is the standard against which allegedly tortious behavior is judged. His conduct is always sensible, never outrageous, not too timid, nor too bold. He is not a coward, but neither is he an excessive risk-taker. His expectations are rational; he is not demanding, but neither is he a doormat.
A few weeks ago, as I was looking forward to my annual cover-Rachel’s-vacation gig here at Harcourt Parish, my plan was to preach a sort of two-part sermon on play and playfulness. Seemed like a good summer-time thing to do. Last week, on Pentecost Sunday, I suggested to you that playfulness is a gift of the Holy Spirit, that play is why we were made. Today being Trinity Sunday, I planned to follow-up with a few words about how a metaphor of play and playfulness can help us understand and participate in the relational community which the triune God is.
Then the Immigration and Customs Enforcement doubled down on Mr. Trump’s promises of “mass deportations” across the country, but especially in Southern California and particularly in Los Angeles (where I grew up, by the way). People took to the streets in protest; the administration used that as an excuse to nationalize the California National Guard and met the protesters not only with 2,000 guardsmen but with 700 Marines, as well.
Y’all know who John Wesley is, or was, I’m sure. The Anglican priest who founded Methodism? My paternal grandparents were Methodists and they really tried to make me into one but, for some reason, it didn’t stick. To this day when Evelyn and I visit a Methodist church, I will often turn to her as we are leaving and say, “There’s a reason I’m not a Methodist.”
Don’t get me wrong! Our church has an ongoing and productive ecumenical dialogue with the United Methodist Church and Methodists are fine people. I just don’t want to be one. There’s a reason I’m not a Methodist. To be honest, though, I wasn’t ever really sure what that reason was, but I was sure there must be one.
