September 16, 2007

Proper 19 C

The Rev'd Lloyd Prator

New York City

Exodus 32:1, 7-14
Psalm 51
1 Timothy 1:12-17
Luke 15:1-20

About a generation ago, the world of religion made one of the seismic shifts that characterize it – along with every other aspect of civilization. What I am referring to is the movement that led to a greater appreciation of Christian spirituality. I cannot criticize such a change. Spirituality, whatever that may be, is probably a good thing. I thought it was. I engaged myself in a course of study that resulted in a certificate of competency in what is called Christian spirituality and spiritual direction. At this time everyone was interested in having a spiritual director, and many undertook direction, and I did my share of it. Still do, in fact.

At the same time, there arose in the culture, a certain reluctance to embrace the idea of religion. People began to say things like, “Oh, I am not very religious, but I am deeply spiritual!” Usually something like that was accompanied by a sweet little smile designed to warm the hearts of a clergyman. Or at least to keep him at a distance.

I can understand such a cultural shift. Much of it is plainly and simply the fault of Christianity with all of its, admitted, failings. People tired of a religion that seemed rigid and intolerant. Women were seeking a religion that opened authority and ministry to them. Homosexuals sought fairer treatment by a faith in which they had always been deeply involved. So, a lot of people, having had enough thank you very much, of religion, opted for “spirituality”.

And started down a road which led, ultimately to a dead end. The quest for a lively spirituality became a part of the great American market phenomenon. People wanted what made them feel good. Just as they wanted the film that kept them guessing to the end, just as they wanted the brunch which had the fluffiest omelets, just as they wanted the body which looked the best in a tank top, so they wanted the spirituality which made them feel the best.

How we feel became the standard for judging everything, including religion, which was now marketed as spirituality.

Now, what could be wrong with this? Well, what is wrong with this is simple. If you are going to judge your religion by what makes you feel good, then how are you going to deal with something profound that most definitely makes you feel anything but good. The feel-god spirituality runs aground when it meets the cancer diagnosis, the bankruptcy, the divorce, the addiction, or the tragic death of the very young. For many of us, the scourge of AIDS, with its random savagery was a cold dash of reality offered, oddly enough, just about the time that people were trying to create and market this mythical feel-good world of spirituality.

But for many, a critique of feel-good religion did not have to wait for a personal tragedy of the sort I just outlined. Many among us came to realize that something deeper was needed simply by looking at the world around them.

One such person was Mother Theresa, the founder of the Missionaries of Charity. You know them; they live here in our neighborhood and are visible every day in their blue and white saris, which form their habits. Mother Theresa ministered to the very poor dying on the streets in Calcutta.

Michael Novak, a Roman Catholic scholar, whom I actually knew slightly when I was an undergraduate at Stanford years ago, has recently written abut Mother Theresa. Mother Theresa, you see, wrote a book in which she confessed to all and sundry that she had spent much of her religious life living in spiritual emptiness. People saw her minister to the poorest of the poor and assumed that she did it from the wellspring of a vivid and colorful faith, when in fact, she felt abandoned. She spent her time bringing love to the abandoned when she herself felt pretty abandoned. Professor Novak suggests, to the contrary, that real faith often exists in a world of abandonment, it is not, as he puts it, “for those who seek only manmade pleasures.” Mother Theresa did not, apparently, have a spiritual life that was very “fulfilling.”

And yet she persevered. She did not give up and try scientology or sufi. I think that she persevered because of her name. Yes. Because of her name. She was originally named Agnes Bojaxhiu (Bo – jadz – hiu), but in Catholic tradition, people take what is called a “name in religion” on entering community. She called herself Theresa. Not an accidental or thoughtless choice. She followed another Theresa, Therese of Lisieux a French 19th century spiritual giant. Therese’s thinking is commonly called The Little Way. Its gist is this: No matter how dark things seem, choose as your beacon a tender love for the persons who are accidentally beside you. Don’t seek brighter or more charming neighbors to love. Love those right at hand. You will never see God, but you can see the tedious, ordinary, boring, tiring neighbor, and as Jesus love him, you love him too. Even if you feel, as Novak puts it, like the bottom of a birdcage, give that person the tender smile of Jesus. Don’t ask to see Jesus or to feel good about your religion. That is for children. Love him in the dark, love for the sake of the invisible God, not for the warmth of human consolation. Love just for the sake of love, not in order to feel neat, fulfilled, or happy.

At the time that Mother Theresa’s biography was written, many people read it and reacted in predictably American, pragmatic, market-oriented ways. Some said, “A-ha!. She was a fraud, she followed a faith that did not work, and she was just as miserable as I am.” Others said “Poor thing, she must have been really miserable, but then, who would not be, granted all the misery she surrounded herself with.” Missing the point in both ways.

Whether or not she was miserable is absolutely irrelevant. The years of aridity and emptiness, which she confessed to her confidants, are not signs of doubt, or signs that the Christian faith is untrue. They are in fact, signs of what Professor Novak calls, “Christian adulthood.” That maturity unfolds like this: By all means seek God. Say your prayers. Make your communion. Follow Christ. But sometimes, for some more often than for others, you must be prepared to work in the dark. That is so not because God is not there, but because your faculties are inadequate to perceive God. Following God even in the dark is adult faith, not the simple faith of children who demand instant gratification. Adult faith works even in the dark.

And, if you look at today’s gospel, you might come to believe that adult faith works best in the dark. The gospel tells us about how God works with lost sheep, or lost coins. If you are really lost, God is in the best position to work with you. That is what the evangelist has to say to us in today’s gospel. Lostness is the matrix for God’s best work. Because when we admit we are lost, we admit that the only one who can do anything about our situation is God. The lost coin just lies there in the dust under the bed until the woman by her diligence, finds it. The lost sheep, and if you have ever worked with sheep you will appreciate this; the lost sheep does not do anything to find itself. It lies there drumming its little hooves until the shepherd finds it.

Agnes Bojaxhiu, who later discovered that she was actually Theresa, lived in the dark. But in the dark she came to know the one for whom darkness and light are both alike. In that darkness, she met another One who for our sake entered the darkness that covered the land from noon to three on a certain Friday afternoon in the spring. And in that darkness, she found common ground with those whose lives are always and only dark because the world has pushed them away from the light.

That kind of life is not a life that denies faith. It is a life that celebrates adult faith. And in the end, that is the only kind of faith that adult Christians should embrace.