Today, Tomorrow, and the Next Day

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

This morning, Jesus is on the road, ministering to the people. And some religious leaders stop him along the way. And they say, “Scary things are happening. Agents of the state are arresting people. Herod, who put John the Baptist to death for mere words, is after you. You ought to run, you ought to hide. You ought to at least, lay low.”

And Jesus says, you tell that fox Herod that “today, tomorrow, and the next day” I have work to do. I must be on my way, on the path to Jerusalem. And it is at this word, Jerusalem, that Jesus’ response takes a turn in tone. And it is a turn toward lament.

Jerusalem is a place on a map, yes. But, more deeply, it is the symbolic spot where God’s dream for us meets humanity’s resistance to that dream. Over and over and over.

Jerusalem. The holy city of peace. The suffering city of war. It is here that we see the divide between what we are and what we were made to be. It is also here that we see the hope of a new world revealed.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem. The violence of the cross. The silence of the tomb. And, always, the brightest hope of resurrection. All together. All in one.

Ours is a ministry and a life lived in that hope; the hope of God’s coming reign. But I’m not sure we acknowledge enough, out loud, that there is a painful edge to that commitment to hope. Because we have no choice but to live here. In this real, gritty world. The same world Jesus of Nazareth entered into. And, as a people looking toward the new, coming world order our God promises, we feel the difference. The chasm. Between what is and what should and what can be. And that chasm is where lament lives.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem is a cry of lament.

Jesus does not ask us to deny these feelings. He has these feelings. We have not been unfaithful if we feel sad. Bereft. Alone. Angry. Or any particular way.

Out of his lament, Jesus tells us he longs to gather us and teach us to be together in the way God envisions. And he describes himself, not as a leopard or a bear or any apex predator. But as a hen. A small, ordinary creature. A creature known to be hunted by foxes. He describes himself as a mother hen. Strong, and also tender. Loud and also vulnerable.

This is our God.

And we are on the road with this God. And, along that road, we will be stopped and told that “scary things are happening.” This week, we were stopped and told that agents of the state are arresting people for mere words.

Agents in plainclothes, without a warrant, without charges. Taking a man from New York to Louisiana. Scary. “You ought to run, you ought to hide. You ought to at least, lay low,” I hear a voice whisper. “Just don’t say anything, and you’ll be fine.”

I am grateful that Bishop Matthew Heyd of the Episcopal Diocese of New York did not listen to that voice. Instead he got to the work of “today, tomorrow, and the next day.” He released a public statement that read, in part: “In accordance with our faith and civic creed, we uphold the belief that difference and dissent should be safe … We reject deportation based on political viewpoint – whether we agree or disagree … we take Jesus’ call to welcome (“I was a stranger and you welcomed me”) and the calls in the Hebrew Bible (“The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the native-born among you; you shall love the alien as yourself) … In the arrest and detention of Mahmoud Khalil; our First Amendment right to freedom of expression faces growing threat. We ask for his immediate release, and his return to New York. “ 

Even and especially when the fox is at the door, Jesus tells us we must continue the work of “today, tomorrow, and the next day.”  And lest we read this, as we will as products of our culture, as a call to the work of constant productivity, that it is not. It is a call to the work of ministry.

And, ministry is protest and resistance and activism and civic action and letter-writing and calling and demonstrating and voting and risking. It is political.  

And, ministry is praying and healing and teaching, and caretaking and visiting and feeding and helping and clothing. It is service.

And, ministry is gathering and connecting and knowing and noticing and loving and worshipping and learning and laughing and watching and reading and crying and singing together. It is community.

It is worth remembering that as we carry out the work of “today, tomorrow, and the next day” in this time and this place, we ought not deny ourselves space for lament. And, we also need not consign ourselves to a constant state of grief. Please allow yourselves to find joy and celebration whenever and wherever you can. I can name at least six events this week at St. John’s alone where I found that joy and that celebration. How about you?

Ministry is what we do, alongside Jesus, on the path to Jerusalem. Which is the path to the cross. And, the path to resurrection. It is the work of “today, tomorrow, and the next day” that sustains us until that time we know will come, when all will be made new.

It is the work we do together that assures us of that upside-down Gospel truth: that in the end, the mother hen is more powerful than the fox.