“This teaching is difficult. Who can accept it?”

Questions facing the 21st century church, as seen through John 6

On Sunday, July 26, I was fortunate enough to preach at my family’s church — St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho — which will be supporting me during my time at Yale Divinity School. I haven’t lived in Idaho for ten years, so this sermon was a chance for the congregation and I to reconnect. I spoke about the hard questions facing the Body of Christ as we adapt to the 21st century, as seen through the lens of Christ feeding the 5,000 and walking on water.

The readings for Year B, Proper 12 (17) are 2 Samuel 11:1–15, Ÿ Psalm 14, Ÿ Ephesians 3:14–21, and Ÿ John 6:1–21.

Next month, I’ll be heading to seminary to continue discerning a likely call to eventual ordination as a priest. A lot of folks tell me that this surprises them, because they think it’s a tough time to go to seminary: Surveys show that church attendance is dropping. Many people, when they look at American Christianity, think of hypocrisy and hatred, not love or grace. And from climate change to corrupt politics to ISIL, the world can seem like it’s on fire — how do you preach on that?

To all of that I say, every generation of Christianity has faced its own challenges, and you and I are no different. No, the church of the 21st century will not look like the church of the 20th century, but the church of the 20th century did not look like it did in the 19th century, either — or the 18th century, or the first.

But one thing does remain the same: In every century, in every age, it is our calling to show God’s love to our fellow women and men. We are to be the Body of Christ in the world, praising our loving creator; connecting others with God; providing one another with community, pastoral care, and accountability; and doing whatever we can to fight for justice and liberate God’s children from their suffering.

The “what” does not change with the times — but I admit, the “how” certainly does, necessitating change in our approach. Change can be scary, but it’s okay. We just have to be brave and figure out how to adapt together. It won’t be easy, but I have confidence that the Spirit is moving among us — as the Episcopal Church, and as the Body of Christ.

So while I’m in seminary, I’ll be doing my best to learn about the struggles we’ll face in the 21st century, and what my role and our role need to be in tackling them. And I think that today’s Gospel, this sixth chapter of John, is a pretty good place to start.

This is, at its heart, a story of liberation. Remember that the central narrative of the Old Testament is the Exodus — God using Moses to liberate God’s people from slavery and political bondage. John takes great pains to paint at least three parallels between Exodus and this Gospel chapter:

First, he tells us that this is the Passover, which started in Exodus. Then, Jesus comes down from a mountain to feed a crowd in the wilderness, like God raining manna from heaven after Moses came back from Mt. Ararat. Jesus even references that story to the disciples later in the chapter. Finally, Jesus, like Moses, miraculously crosses a body of water on foot to save his people — one parting the waters to flee an army, the other walking on the waters to calm a storm.

But what do liberation stories like these mean for us today, as Christians, as Episcopalians, and as members of St. Luke’s?

First, we must remember that we ourselves have been spiritually liberated. God is always with us, no matter how bleak things look. Jesus does feed us in the wilderness; and He does calm the storms that rock our boats.

One of my favorite quotes is from theologian Tex Sample, who says that trouble is the infallible sign of God’s presence. Trouble is the infallible sign of God’s presence –not because God loves trouble, but because God loves us, so where there is trouble, God comes to be.

In the past four years, I’ve gone through two devastating breakups with women I thought I might marry, I have been laid off twice, and I lost my grandfather, the greatest man I ever knew. And some in this room have been through far worse — divorce, losing a home, losing a child. But every time, we can remind ourselves, Jesus has been there too. Even the Son of God in the Garden begged God to take away His cup, His suffering, and then the next day could not feel God’s presence, crying out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus knows our pain because He has experienced it — and so He comes to us in ours.

In those moments of darkness and sorrow, we can be comforted by the knowledge of God’s presence. But, we are also called to share that presence with others. God frees us from our spiritual struggles, so we need to identify how others are suffering — whether that’s personal grief, or social and even political oppression — and reach out to them just as God does.

How do we answer that call and say, here I am, Lord, send me? How do we become a church of the 21st century, relevant to the problems and suffering of this age? I don’t have a lot of answers, and even if I did, I’m not sure it would be right for me to make suggestions today — “Here are the ministries I think you should be doing — bye! I’ll check in next summer!” But one talent I do have is identifying hard, and sometimes uncomfortable, questions that we need to ask before we can succeed.

Is the church properly equipped for today’s world, or do we need to change? Not our teachings or faith, but our behaviors, culture, and even our most cherished traditions? What new things do we need to take on, and what beloved old things might we have to set aside? To think about just one example that may illustrate the type of challenges we face — if WE are the church, are our buildings always necessary? We grow attached to places, but many rural churches with less than 20 members as well as innovative, evangelical urban pastors are asking, what would a church without permanent walls look like?

We also need to ask, what do we say to those who have been hurt by Christians? When someone says to us they don’t believe in organized religion because they only saw hypocrites growing up, or when they tell us the church can’t show them God’s love because they have been scorned as a gay person or a single mother – how do we respond? I know it’s wrong for us to start with the reply, “Well you know, our church ordains women and has marriage equality!” Because as much as I support those things, when we respond that way, we make it about ourselves rather than this person’s very real pain. How do we apologize to those hurt in the name of Christ, the same name they hear us proclaim? How do we start listening?

Looking outwards, beyond the church to the nation we serve, why are God’s black male teenage children 21 times more likely to be shot by police than God’s white male teenage children? Why are job applicants with white-sounding names more likely to get interviews than black names on the same resume? Are these racial injustices systemic, and if so, what has our role been in that system?

What about the giant corporations that kill with pollution, and then refuse to clean up that pollution? The monopolies that destroy all the jobs but the ones they offer, and then refuse to offer those jobs to God’s children at a livable wage? What does the church have to say about that kind of abuse of power?

To be clear, I am not saying it is the church’s job to identify new policies – the pulpit is not the place for regulatory analysis. But when we see injustice against God’s children, we have to name it. These are the sorrows confronting the nation today, so if we want to be relevant as a 21st century church representing God to society, if we want to work towards the mission of liberation and fulfill our Baptismal vows of striving for justice and peace, then these are just some of the questions we must ask.

That’s not always comfortable. And Jesus knows that. In the rest of chapter 6, after He feeds the 5000 and walks on water, Christ explains that we must live by the bread of life, by the spirit, not the flesh. John says, “When many of his disciples heard it, they said, ‘This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?’ But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, ‘Does this offend you?’”

This teaching is difficult, can WE accept it?

Does this offend US?

There is one other thing about John 6 that jumps out at me, and that is that the fish and loaves come from... a little boy.

A little boy, the kind usually overlooked. Who saw that coming?

I should pause for a moment and take a quick step back to say, the closest thing I have to a church mentor right now is our bishop, Jim Waggoner. Every time we talk, he reminds me to stay open: To hold my truths lightly, not get too sure of myself, and see where the Spirit leads.

This little boy might be Christ’s reminder to us to stay open – open to the wisdom, the help, and even the salvation that God sends to us via unexpected people.

We cannot introduce people to God where they are, be allies of the oppressed, or work to liberate them if we don’t listen to them first: The noisy child in the crowd, the mentally ill drunk homeless man on the street asking for a handout, the minority activists who aren’t polite when they protest their state execution in the streets – anyone who has had even one minute of lived experience that you or I haven’t had brings something to the table that you and I can’t, like miraculous loaves and fishes. We need to be open to their presence, and even seek them out. If they are the people we must serve, then they are the people who we must let lead us.

I’m not saying we don’t already do these things. I’m very proud of our denomination. But what I am saying is that no matter how good we’ve gotten, there’s always another child with a basket of bread going unnoticed. And as Christians, we’re the ones who are supposed to notice that child and lift them up.

This can seem daunting, but I take great joy in it, for one reason: With God, no matter what happens on Monday, we get to try again on Tuesday. No matter what happens in the first 65 years of life, we get to try again in the next 35. As long as we keep trying - trying to get better, to introduce others to the divine, to liberate God’s children, and to rejoice in God’s name - there is always tomorrow. We just have to accept the challenge together and keep going.

I love it, and I’m excited.

Some local Idaho references have been removed from this post, and a paragraph or two that were removed for length were added back in their place.