10th Sunday after Pentecost (August 2, Fr. Guiliano)

During last week’s sermon on the letter to the Romans, Deacon Chris reminded us of the unfailing love of God. Her sermon ascended to the place Paul reaches at the end of Chapter 8. 

I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor power, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (8:38-39). 

This is an expression of total confidence in God’s mercy. We should rely on it. But how then, did we feel when Paul’s words turned so dramatically in our lesson today? 

I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own people…

It’s a big shift in only a few verses.

Nothing can separate us from God’s love; yet Paul wishes to be separated, “cut off.” St Paul stands between these two poles of confidence and prayer – convinced, to the fullest extent possible, of God’s mercy toward all; but then still worried, praying, and wishing. Why? 

The short answer is unbelief. Paul was in anguish over the response of most of his people to the Christian message. We cannot forget that the Church started as a movement among Jews. Jesus was Jewish, the 12 apostles were Jewish; nearly all the earliest disciples were. But, quickly, Christianity became a movement among “Gentiles,” the goyim, the non-Jewish nations. We can see this change take place in pages of the New Testament itself, not least in the Acts of the Apostles. As the message about Jesus spread, as he was proclaimed as Israel’s Messiah and Lord, many Jews responded, but many more Gentiles responded. Within a generation, the Church was filled with those who had no claim on the traditions or culture of Israel. 

How could this be? As St Paul says of the Israelites, “To them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship and the promises; to them belong the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh, comes the Messiah.” It’s their Bible we’re reading; their Psalms we are singing; their traditions we inhabit.

The Lord made himself known in a particular way to this people. He appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, giving them a calling in Canaan, the Land of Promise. He rescued their descendants from Egypt during the Exodus. Through Moses, he gave them the Law and the tabernacle in the desert and the prayers and the sacrifices. His glory shone out among them in the pillar of fire and the cloud, and he was with them through their long years in the wilderness, in the Promised Land, during the time of the Judges, during the monarchies, during the Exile and return. Israel was like God’s firstborn son. He spoke to their prophets. They had a rich heritage, a unique faith and calling. It was not yet ours.

So when the Messiah came, how could they not believe? Wasn’t this the whole point: their faith in him, their salvation through him, their allegiance to him? Why would God work so patiently through the centuries, molding this people, forgiving their sins and restoring them so many times? Why -- if in the end they would not believe? It seems incredible.

“I am speaking the truth in Christ,” Paul says, “I am not lying; my conscience confirms it in the Holy Spirit – I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh.”
 
You may have felt this kind of anguish before. Perhaps you have an unbelieving son or daughter, an unbelieving mother, father, cousin, co-worker, friend, spouse. You have someone whom you love dearly and yet do not fully understand, because you believe and they do not. I have felt this sorrow for family and friends: it’s not like everyone I know goes to church. 

And when it comes to the faith and heritage I felt this sorrow, too, on another level when I was serving as a priest in England -- as an American, working for the established Church, with its parishes in every community, its influence felt everywhere, and its congregations that are so small. Less than 3% of the English population attends an Anglican church on any given Sunday. It’s shocking. This is the church whose cathedrals the world travels to admire, whose music is the glory of choral singing, whose literature has inspired countless generations. This is a church of real saints (and some notorious sinners). This is the church that sent missionaries around the world and formed the Anglican Communion. Yet the Church of England is dying, and the English people less to do with it every day. There, as priest for that people, I may have felt some of the great weight Paul bore, when he said, “I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my people…”

It felt so strange to minister among the English. I’d look around me and think: All this belongs to them.

Of course, we might say this in a different way about the Christian faith in America. Christianity has flourished on this continent. There is a heritage here with worship going back centuries. This faith belongs here. And yet in each generation, adherence slips, and our understanding of that Christian heritage diminishes or is distorted.

Faith is a mysterious thing. There is something about it that we do not understand, that Paul himself could not understand. As he writes in Romans chapter 11, “How unsearchable are God’s judgments and how inscrutable are his ways!” 

What is God doing in each human heart? Why do some believe and others only doubt? 

With St Paul, “I am convinced that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come…shall ever separate us from the love of God.” And yet I find myself in sorrow over many who will not believe. 

I want everyone to know the joy that we have, to know what it means to feel the love and support of God I want to repeat to them the words of the prophet Isaiah in our first reading: “Come!” 

Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come buy wine and milk without money and without price.

The grace of God is present. It is for you. It is for your children and all whom you love. You are thirsty, do not deny it. You are wasting your time on so many things while here there is food, water, and life. The Lord is opening wide his hand to satisfy the needs of every living creature. Do not close yourself off. 

Jesus stands on the shore of the world, looking upon that great crowd, the whole human family, and he still has compassion. As in times of old, as in the story relayed in our Gospel today, he means to stay with those who need him. He sees the hungry and the thirsty. And he gives a command to his followers: “Give them something to eat."
 
It’s important for us to hear this, in our times of anguish, when we see the need around us, both material and spiritual. “You give them something to eat.” We wonder what God is doing for the unfaithful; well, he is doing something in you for them. “Give them something to eat,” however small your efforts may feel, however meager. Christ took five loaves and two fish, a little picnic, and he fed a multitude: 5000 men “besides women and children” with 12 baskets left over. 

It is not for the Church to puzzle out what is happening in each human heart. We do not know how God shall resolve his judgments respecting this or that person. That’s not for us. This is for us: “Give them something to eat.” Imitate God in his continual love and mercy. Open wide your hand and fill others with blessing.