Proper 23 (Mother Marisa)

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Writing from a prison cell, the Apostle Paul assured his beloved brethren in Philippi that despite every indication to the contrary, there was no reason to fear. His imprisonment only served to further the gospel. His rivals, unwittingly, did the same. Paul’s hands were bound, but his spirits were free. You can hear it in his voice: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” 

After a week like this past one, when we’ve watched the body count grow, when we’ve found that old hatreds are alive and well, when we’ve seen with horrific detail the fact that there is no winner in total war, we  hear this word. 

Rejoice. The Lord is near. Do not worry. Tell him what you need. He will protect you. 

This exhortation, this encouraging reminder, is important always; but now it is essential, especially when each morning we look at the news and expect to see something worse unfold. Worry stands to become our constant companion. How could it not, with this level of uncertainty. Despite the amount of information at our fingertips, we can’t know what will happen. Good outcomes, bad outcomes, miracles, disasters — hundreds of scenarios race through our minds, until we look up and realize that the day has gone or the night has passed, and nothing has changed for the better. Tired and confused, we buy an extra coffee and check our phones again, hoping to find something that will give us a sliver of peace, a moment of rest, but nothing seems to take the edge off for long. 

Rejoice. The Lord is near. Do not worry. Tell him what you need. He will protect you.

When the Apostle Paul wrote to his church in Philippi, he knew that they were struggling. Their founder (St. Paul) was jailed. And when they sent a beloved member of the congregation to bring him aid, that man became terribly ill. The Philippian Christians thought he had died. And while they waited for news of his fate — and of Paul’s — the community was suddenly beset by people who contradicted everything they thought they knew about God and his Christ.

Afraid and unhappy, the Philippian Christians began to argue with one another. Old friendships ended. New strife emerged. Their future looked bleak. 

So Paul told them to look at something else. 

It’s not for nothing that we tell our kids: Be careful little eyes what you see. That age-old wisdom dovetails with Paul’s concern. Where we bestow our attention will inevitably color our perception, which in turn, shapes our reality. Paul knew that if the Philippian Christians focused on their fears to the exclusion of all else, they would become that fear. If they focused on their anger, they would become that anger. Paul wanted his spiritual children to be free, to be people of faith, hope and love – regardless of circumstance. 

Earlier in his epistle, Paul writes this: “I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him . . . . that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”

At times like these, when our world shakes and shakes us with it, when we can’t help but search desperately for any small measure of peace, the Apostle Paul reminds us of where to look: There is only one God who can make a table in the wilderness.

Rejoice. The Lord is near. Do not worry. Tell him what you need. He will protect you. 

When we seek Christ, when we take hold of the gifts he has given us, we begin the lifelong process of learning to see with the eyes of faith. We begin to recognize that the peace we crave is there not because of how hard we’ve tried to find it, but because Christ is at hand. He is in our hearts and on our lips, and he gives generously to all who call on him. 

As we allow ourselves to dare to believe that what our Savior says is true — “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you” — that wholeness, that rest, that light everlasting will begin to shine in everything we see: in the sun rising and setting, in the faces of each stranger we meet, in the Bread and in the Wine and in the Word; until, our hearts re-tuned, our vision realigned, we wake up to the fact that the banquet has begun and that the king has called us friend and that the worry and the weeping and the gnashing of teeth fade away before the Lamb who was slain for our sake. 

Rejoice. The Lord is near. Do not worry. Tell him what you need. He will protect you. AMEN.

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