Half Empty

St Luke’s Philadelphia • Sept 15 2019
RCL1: Jer 4:11-12,22-28; Ps 14; 1Tim 1:12-17; Lk 15:1-10
For thus says the Lord: The whole land shall be a desolation, yet I will not make a full end.✠

You have likely heard of the difference between an optimist and a pessimist, and how they see a glass as being either half-full or half-empty. I actually have such a glass at home, a wine glass with a line marked on the side half-way up (or down, depending on your point of view) with the words Optimist and Pessimist etched in the appropriate places above and below the line. Well, today’s passage from the prophet Jeremiah should leave us with no doubt on which side of the line he places himself. It is a good reminder of why he is thought of as a prophet of doom. No, Jeremiah clearly never got the memo, “Don’t be bringing me no bad news.”

What he speaks of in this morning’s passage is a hot blast of wind that sweeps everything away, not just to “winnow or cleanse,” no, but too strong for that, too strong for a mere dusting; this is a real grab it by the end and shake it out the window kind of wind. This is a knock it all down and start it all over kind of wind; if the Middle East had hurricanes, this would be category 5. Jerusalem then would look worse than the Bahamas does now.

The prophet looks, and in the aftermath of this terrific blast of wind, he sees nothing but a waste and void below, and nothing but darkness in the heavens above — Jeremiah quotes the words of Genesis, recalling the time before creation itself, before God filled the dark and empty void, before God called forth the light of heaven; this is the desolation of primeval un-creation.

Yet into this desolation, the prophet gives one hopeful word he has received from the Lord, one brief phrase of promise, one little shred of hope, like the still small voice that came after the winds and tempests and earthquakes that shattered the mountains: “Yet I will not make a full end.”

This little glimmer of hope, this whisper of a still, small voice with the shred of a promise, is a common theme in the words not just of Jeremiah, but of many of the prophets. Even when everything seems lost, when it seems all have turned bad and we are tempted to join the Psalmist in declaring that “there is none who does good, no not one” — there is still some remnant, some little portion, some crack in the drought-stricken soil into which a hopeful seed has found its way to bide its time until the rains come.

God had assured the despondent exile Elijah in that still, small voice, that there were more than a few left in Israel who had not bent their knee to Baal, that he was not alone in his struggle to remain faithful; Isaiah had received the promise that a remnant would return from exile in far Babylon; and Ezekiel would celebrate the promise that God would return to the once-forsaken, once-abandoned Temple. These prophets bear witness to this promise: However bad it gets, however dark the night and desolate the prospect, a slim, small hope for dawn abides. A portion, however small, remains. The handful of meal and teaspoon of oil will somehow last for three years; the glass that didn’t even seem so much as half-empty, the cup with just a few drops left in the bottom, turns out after all to be full to the brim.

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This seems to have been St Paul’s personal experience as well, though he applies it universally to the whole human condition. Like the desolation of the land described by Jeremiah, Paul’s condition — when he was still the unconverted Saul, before the light shined on him on the Damascus Road — was about as bad as bad can be: a blasphemer, a persecutor, a man of violence, foremost among sinners. And yet, in the midst of that parched, dry wilderness of anger, hatred, and self-righteousness, God was able to find the little shred of salvageable goodness that is still present in even the worst sinner, and make the most of it, stretching that little bit out to serve God’s purposes. Like the surprise of water in the desert suddenly welling up to overflow, God poured out mercy and grace upon one almost — but not completely — empty of any good, and made him into an instrument for the spread of God’s good word of promise.

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So much for the pessimists! Today’s Gospel looks at things more from the glass-half-full side. Just as half-empty (or even less than that) is not God’s ultimate will, so too even half-full isn’t good enough for God. Even almost full isn’t good enough for God. Jesus attests that he is not one to deal in acceptable losses, to say, “What’s one sheep lost when I’ve still got ninety-nine; what’s one dime out of a dollar lost under the sofa-cushion?” No, our God is not a God of acceptable losses; God wants it all. God will not suffer anything to be lost.

Now, I know it’s that time of year, and as tempting as the ten-percent proportion of one dime from a dollar might be, this is not going to be a sermon about tithing... Except... to remind us that the tithe is not all that God wants. God wants it all — all of us, in both senses of that phrase: every last one of us, and everything that each of us is and has, our whole heart and mind and soul and strength, all those faculties of ourselves the full extent of which we are called and challenged to apply to our love of God, as strongly and completely as our God loves each and all of us.

For in the end, it isn’t about proportion, about acceptable losses, but about the perfection of all in all. It isn’t about a glass half-empty or half-full, but completely full, abundance piled up and packed down, full to the brim and then to overflowing. God did not rest, at the first, at the beginning Jeremiah recalls for us, God did not rest until the days of creation were fulfilled and the Sabbath of completion was come. Nor will God rest in the work of the new creation in Christ until all is well, and every manner of thing is well, and complete, and full to overflowing, brought to perfection by him, and in him, and through him.

As today’s collect prays, we seek for the Holy Spirit’s direction and rule “in all things” — and the aid the Holy Spirit provides is not that desolating wind that levels the mountains but the powerful yet persuasive guidance of the Spirit as in the beginning, when the Spirit hovered over the uncreated deep. This is not a wind of desolation, but of creation, the new creation of all things — we seek this, the Holy Spirit’s aid, guiding and directing us so that our hearts may be completely given to God, vessels open to receive God’s gift of grace, that we might be filled — not just a bit, not just halfway, but to overflowing completion. Whether we find ourselves rescued by the skin of our teeth when we are almost entirely bereft and empty, or content to think ourselves satisfied with the half-measure we already have; whether we feel we are running on fumes or cruising along on half a tank; whether desolated by the blast of an ill wind, or mistakenly satisfied with the good-enough compromise for which we might be tempted to settle; God will surprise us with amazing grace, and shower us with blessings. Rejoice, then, my friends, for the lost has been found, and filled, and blessed; and join Saint Paul in his joyful acclamation: to the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen.

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Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

Verse for Advent III

Happiness is made of spun sugar
and dissolves in the presence of tears.

But Joy is a rock and foundation
that withstands all the waves
of our sorrows and fears.

TSH
with thanks to Ken Ironside for his sermon and inspiration

Thought for inauguration

The Last Token

Let not Barack Obama
be just another token,
pointed to as proof —
sign of one race's victory
or another's tolerance.

Let not this new beginning
be conceived of as an end,
as something we've accomplished;
for we still have far,
so very far, to go.

Rather let this be
a true inauguration,
a new beginning.

Let him not be
just one more sign or symbol,
but an efficacious sacramental presence;
real flesh and blood,
present and vocal:
to call us all
to sweat and tears,
to set our hands to work
to do the many tasks
that lie before us.

Let this be
the end of tokens,
signs and symbols of deceptive promise;
let this be
the inauguration,
not the benediction,
of our hopes.

Let this be
in form and substance
active and alive;
not contented evening,
but the hopeful dawn.

Tobias Haller BSG

Thought for 12.01.08

When one is heading in the wrong direction, more and more difficulties arise, which are harder and harder to explain. When one is heading in the right direction, points which once created difficulty now fall into place and guide ones progress. If one is headed the wrong way on a trail, a tree becomes an obstacle: from the other side one sees that there is a sign hanging on it. When seen in the wrong way, even the goal itself can appear to be an obstruction. When one is headed in the wrong direction, the backside of a signpost appears to be an obstacle.

How did the anthem go? “Turn back, O Man, forswear thy foolish ways...”

An Advent thought from Tobias Haller BSG

A Maxim for 05.21.08

...based on a comment thread below

Always act as if things were the way you believe things should be. Let your aspirations, hopes and vision guide you, as you pass through the midst of those who would throw you off the cliff, and go on your way.

Tobias Haller BSG

Blind Man’s Testimony

Because I was born blind I didn’t know
I was until they told me I was blind.

I used to sit beside my father in
the synagogue, pressed close against his side,
his arm around my shoulder. Once he let
me touch the velvet-covered Torah as
it passed, guiding my hand in his.
I never made bar mitzvah — couldn’t read,
and didn’t have the heart to memorize.

Still, how I loved the synagogue, especially
the prophets’ words. A few years back I heard
a man read from Isaiah and — I swear —
I thought the words would come true then and there:
“sight to the blind,” he said. Well, one can hope.

When I grew up, I earned my bread by sit-
ting on the corner, holding out my hand.
They knew me in the neighborhood. It wasn’t
a bad living; once a rich young ruler
even put a gold coin in my hand —
a small one, but so heavy next to coppers.

From time to time discussions would take place
about my blindness and its possible cause.
All above my head — in every sense!

Then, of course, one day that man called Jesus
happened by. He said that he was light.
He put mud on my eyes and sent me to
the pool to wash it off. And then I saw.

What was it like to see at first? It looked
like trumpets sound on New Year’s Day, ram’s horn
and brass; it looked like gold feels in the hand —
I think I told you that I felt it once;
like smiles feel on my fingertips. It looked
like velvet felt that time my father, my
small hand in his, pressed it against the Torah,
and the jingling silver sounded round
my ears. A bit like that.
                                       Funny, though,
that when I got back to the street, though I
could see, the neighbors didn’t recognize me.
Scholars grilled me, called my parents, wouldn’t
take my word. And finally they kicked
me out.
              Do I miss the synagogue?
I miss the New Year’s trumpets; miss the Torah
scroll, its velvet cover and the silver bells.
I miss the prophets’ words. I miss
my parents.
                     But I do not miss the end-
less questions on my blindness; I
don’t miss the corner of the street or my
old “friends” and neighbors; I don’t miss the heat
and street-smells and the ache of outstretched arm
and empty hand.
                             Besides, I saw that man —
the one that said that he was light? He was,
you know. He was the one who gave me sight,
just like the prophet said. He is my Torah
now, my New Year’s Day, my gold, my light,
my father and my God.

Tobias Haller BSG
May 16, 2008

Emmaus: Image, Music, Word

Symphonic Poem #2 — Two of them were walking


Known in Bread

Saint James Fordham • Easter 3A • Tobias Haller BSG
...He had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.+

Last week I spoke about signs, the tools God uses to communicate the message of salvation to us mortals. We heard the story of Noah and the flood, and how God placed the sign of the rainbow in the sky, a sign of the covenant promise never to destroy the world by a flood, and as a kind of certification that Noah and his family had indeed been saved. And I spoke as well of the imperishable sign of the cross, the testimony of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ’s saving and atoning death, and we heard the Gospel of the empty tomb, and the wounded hands of Jesus, signs of the truth of his resurrection from the dead, signs sure enough to convince even Doubting Thomas that victory had been won.
The reason that God gives us signs is in part because we are so likely to miss the message of salvation in the midst of our noisy and distracting world, with its many temptations and diversions. We are often, as our Lord said to the disciples on the road to Emmaus, “foolish and slow of heart to believe.” And so God, like a patient teacher, continues to instruct us and give us signs.
Now, some of these signs are miraculous in the old-fashioned sense, miracles that astonish and amaze us. We’ve all heard stories of miraculous healing, of people given up for dead who somehow recover, to the amazement of the doctors and everyone else. And these signs from God renew our faith. But let us never forget that it is the renewal of our faith, and that alone, which makes a miracle a miracle: not that it is a magic trick whereby the impossible appears to be done. The true miracle lies in the fact that it produces faith, it assures our trust, it renews our hope in and knowledge of a loving God who is with us and for us. The importance of miracles does not lie in their defying the laws of science and reason, but in their working upon the human spirit, leading us into all truth, revealing God’s presence to the eye of faith.
One example of this are the miraculous tortillas that occasionally appear on the griddles of devout women in Mexico and Central America. Now this is not manna from heaven; it isn’t that the tortillas suddenly appear from nowhere! It is that cooked into the surface of the tortilla, scorched by the griddle, is the appearance of the likeness of Christ. I’ve seen photographs of these miraculous tortillas, dried and preserved in cigar boxes lined with colorful wrapping paper, adorned with plastic flowers, and reverently placed on the shelves of the homes blessed with this miraculous visitation.
And of course one could say that all of this has a scientific explanation: that the human brain, with its need and ability to read patterns into chaos, can see the likeness of Christ in the random scorches on the surface of the flatbread, much as one can lie on one’s back and look up at clouds and see them forming ships at sea, castles in Spain, or an entire zoo of fluffy animals. Yet even though the miraculous tortilla has a fairly simple explanation, that doesn’t mean it isn’t a miracle — for it brings faith, and it is faith, not magic, that is truly miraculous — it is the true reason miracles happen in the first place.
For the real miracle isn’t that the face of Christ appears on a tortilla; the real miracle is that anyone could believe in a God who would be interested in having his face appear on a tortilla; the real miracle is to believe that God would be interested in surprising and blessing a poor Mexican housewife while she labors over a hot griddle at the end of a long day; that God would be interested in the wanderings of an insignificant tribe of desert nomads, or the political affairs of a shepherd-boy turned king; that God who created the universe would be bothered to take the time to visit a young woman at her prayers and chose her to be the mother of his incarnate Son; and then chose to have her bear him in a barn; that God would, in that Son, live and die as one of us, and be raised from the dead, and then — the miracles continue — not immediately ascend to heaven, but continue those prosaic little field trips, having breakfast by the seaside, taking a walk with two disciples, and finally, breaking bread with them in a little country inn on the outskirts of Jerusalem.
For the bread of Emmaus is no less a revelation of the presence of Christ than the tortilla of Guadalajara. It is in that simple act of breaking bread, a common every-day kitchen-table act, that God Almighty chooses to be made known — and that is a miracle if ever there was one.
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And yet… and yet. How slow we are to realize the miracle as it happens! We look for the technicolor, hi-res special effects of the apocalypse, while God is revealed in the simple white-bread world around us. How slow of heart, like the disciples who walked that road with Jesus, how slow to believe we are when we miss the presence of God with us, walking at our side and opening the Scripture to us, breaking the bread with us, the risen Lord who deigns to be our guest.
Jesus said, “How foolish you are! How slow to believe the prophets!” And with this simple exclamation he echoes God’s never-failing amazement with his children Israel. “When will you get it?” God seems to say. “How many seas must be parted, how many pillars of fire, how much water from how many stones, how much bread from heaven, how many crucifixions, how many risings from the dead until you understand how much I love you?” (God is patient, but often needs to speak to his people this way.) Just as Jesus walked with the disciples on that rural roadway, so God had accompanied the children of Israel in their wandering in the wilderness, and brooded in their midst in the Temple all those years. The prophets, from Moses to Mary Magdalene, had been discounted, ridiculed, and disbelieved by the very people who most needed to hear the news. Yet God did not abandon these stubborn children. God loved them too much for that; God loves us too much for that.
And that is the greatest miracle, the greatest faith: God’s faith in his children, God’s faith in us. It is to that faith, to God’s faith in us, that God doesn’t give up on us, to which God bids us open our eyes! There is always time for another message, even a message from God's own Son, risen from the dead.
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The walkers reach the little village, and Jesus makes as if to continue on his way. He is stopped by their appeal, “Stay with us.” (This is the appeal that God always hopes for and can never and will never resist. In God’s wonderful and miraculous world the Creator waits and wants to be invited by the creature. The architect and builder of the house waits to be welcomed as a guest. The Lord and Master serves the servants.)
So at dinner, bread is broken; eyes are opened, memories and hearts are stirred. The miracle of broken bread, a simple sign, proclaims God’s presence in a flash, as quickly as he disappears. For as quickly as he came, he vanishes from their sight— perhaps like the Cheshire Cat, leaving a smile lingering in the air for a moment. As he had said to them before his Passion, “A little while you will not see me, and then a little while you will...” God has always loved to play peek-a-boo with his children.
And so still God does. So still we children of our loving God gather week by week to hear the apostles’ teaching and to share in their fellowship, breaking the bread as they did long ago, in a set of actions extended now through these two millennia of time, and through space to the ends of the world; we gather as they did to pray and break the bread, looking for the miraculous presence of God not in the surface of a scorched tortilla, but in the inward corners of our hearts, warmed by the word of God; in the joyful expression of each others’ faces as we pass the peace and share the broken bread, the wine-filled cup. And this is our miracle, our eye-opening, heart-warming miracle, leading to a sure and certain and unshakeable faith, for in this sharing of the word and breaking of the bread the risen Lord of Glory has deigned to be our guest, deigned to be held in the palms of our hands, and enshrined within our hearts. Alleluia, the Lord is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia! +

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Thought for 02.23.08

Faith holds fast to what is past, hope looks for what is to come; love exists in the present, and only in the present can love exist. This is why love is eternal, for it is always now, always coming into being, always giving itself away, always dying to itself.

Tobias Haller BSG