The Uneven Exchange

There are some people, perhaps even in this room, who may be familiar from personal experience with the barter system. A farmer, for instance, trades several baskets of fresh eggs in exchange for a service rendered by a blacksmith, or something comparable to that. There are places in the world where this is still in use, even today, although it’s not so common in this country.

The closest many of us might come to bartering is quid pro quo arrangements. Maybe a church offers use of its space for a musical ensemble to make a recording. In exchange, the ensemble offers to sing a free concert for the church. In such arrangements, good faith is required, trust is necessary, and resources other than money are seen as having an equivalent value. There’s some degree of risk in this way of conducting business, because the exchange is hard to quantify. Somebody just might get the short end of the stick. But it seems to me that the purpose of such arrangements is that they are not completely financial in nature. Services and things are measured beyond a cold assessment of numerical value.

And yet, there is still an exchange. This for that. Quid pro quo. The idea is that, even if money doesn’t change hands, there is still some kind of balancing that takes place.

This doesn’t strike the modern ear, especially the modern American ear, as being unreasonable. Our system of commerce is based on solid principles of this for that, of supposedly equal exchange. The car you buy is evaluated at market value, even if you spend some time negotiating its price. There is really no such thing as a free lunch. But we also know that things get messy in equal exchange arrangements when someone seems to be shortchanged or cheated. If someone reneges on their end of the bargain, there needs to be some kind of justice for the system to retain its efficacy.

Now, I would guess that many of us apply our understanding of the exchange of goods or services to our own spiritual lives. We hear Jesus’ exhortations to decent, godly behavior, and we assume that if we follow those guidelines, things will work out well. The Golden Rule might best exemplify this even exchange. Treat others as you want to be treated in return. Fair enough, right? If I say my prayers and go to church and engage in service to those in need, I can expect some kind of eternal reward. If I welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked, I gain some kind of spiritual extra credit. Or at the very least, I get an honest grade for the work I’ve done.

But if we’re clear about today’s Gospel passage, we will find that Jesus’ math doesn’t quite add up in our bartering system or quid pro quo mentality. Jesus’ words are well known: those who lose their life for his sake, will find their life. Those who wish to save their life will lose it. To follow Christ, you not only have to deny yourself—give something up—but also take up a cross. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like an equal or fair exchange.

Jesus continues: If you amass all the things you really want, the things of the world, your life is somehow forfeited. The conclusion is that there is no way to barter one’s life.

We’ve heard Jesus offer this same bad math before. The laborers in the vineyard who only spend a few hours working at the end of the day get paid the same as those who worked from early dawn. The Prodigal Son receives a sumptuous feast from his father, even after wandering away for a while, and elder brother is none too happy because of it. This doesn’t seem fair at all.

And so, we might even expect that Jesus’ arithmetic is a bit off and call it a day. Okay, we say. Maybe the exchange rate is not entirely even in human terms. We give fifty acres of land in exchange for two apples. But we can come around to accepting Jesus’ system of trade. What it means is that we need to expect to deny ourselves and give up a lot of things that are dear to us, but we can fully expect that some kind of beautiful eternal reward is waiting around the corner for us. If it’s not fair from our worldly mindset, we at least get something out of it.

This is how we are tempted to read Jesus’ concluding words in today’s Gospel lesson. Matthew is clear: judgment is nigh upon us. The Son of Man will return and repay everyone for their actions. So, we get on with the business of doing as much good so that we can be repaid well. It’s worth giving up some of our comfort to gain that everlasting reward.

The problem is that we have actually come full circle and are back where we started. Even if we accept the unequal exchange of Jesus’ math, we are now, once again, bartering. We do something and we expect something in return. Quid pro quo.

It turns out that the language used in the original Greek of this passage is quite commercial in nature. It is the cold, calculated, measured language of an exacting exchange. The profit and loss of those who barter with their lives is echoed in the description of the Son of Man’s judgment, too: the Son of Man will repay people for what they have done. Tit for tat, quid pro quo. It’s as if those who treat their relationships with their neighbors as a bartering game can expect the same in judgment.

The rub lies in how we view our neighbors. If our brothers and sisters are seen as mere commodities, the judgment upon us, wrought by our own actions, is that we only see our salvation as something to be commercialized. This way of dealing with everyday life can so permeate our being that we end up applying it to God. We are used to giving favors to gain favors, or consorting with the powerful to earn power, or paying special attention to certain people so we can get something in return, and so God becomes another bargaining deal for us.

But it goes even deeper. Even when we think we are being altruistic towards our neighbor, doing good and not expecting anything from them, it might turn out that we are secretly expecting something from God.

And Jesus, in the words we hear today, encourages us to see things differently. Crucified on the cross, between two criminals, Jesus looked to his Father in heaven while his arms were extended outward in forgiveness towards the condemned men on either side of him. The cross itself entreats us to look not only vertically but horizontally.

When our actions, even if good, are simply geared towards the vertical relationship, then our salvation has become individualistic and narrowly personal. The good we do is quid for the quo that we anticipate from God.

Jesus’ economics are quite different. He did not offer his life to win favor from his Father. He willingly gave his life for those who hated him and ridiculed him. And in doing so, Jesus directed our gaze to the economy of God. This economy is no even exchange. Nothing can be bartered here. For what would it profit us to gain the whole world if we end up losing our life? How can we even put an economic value on our life?

The exchange rate in God’s economy is vastly and gloriously uneven and unfair, and hopelessly stacked in our favor. We gain untold merits by Jesus’ passion, death, and resurrection by virtue of being God’s beloved children. We don’t do anything to earn it. We don’t negotiate a quid pro quo for our salvation. It is freely offered. And what we end up gaining is immeasurable. God’s mercy and compassion cannot be squeezed into any numerical system. And when we try to do so, we are repaid accordingly.

It would seem that Paul understood God’s economy all too well from his Letter to the Romans. The system of exchange that still governs much of our world, is an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. A nasty word is returned for a nasty word, and cold shoulders invite more cold shoulders. Broken agreements render more broken agreements. But Jesus breaks this vicious system of quid pro quo by extending his loving arms on the hard wood of the cross so that everyone can come within the reach of his saving embrace.[1]

In God’s economy, salvation cannot be divorced from neighbor. Our actions and intentions must not be oriented towards our own personal reward alone but must come to encompass those around us. And the exchange rate is not even, because if it were, too many people would end up losing.

Our own bishop has constantly reminded us during this pandemic that as the living Body of Christ, we are incarnational, not transactional. The Church doesn’t operate as Walmart does. The life of faith is not measure for measure. Scarcity is not traded for scarcity. Instead, with God’s generous provision, scarcity is always traded for abundance. Mustard seeds are traded for mountains. It all seems unfair and uneven, and that’s why it’s so good.

And thanks be to God that his mercy and compassion are not doled out based on how much we give to others, even if our actions inform how much we are able to receive that mercy and compassion. Thanks be to God that the exchange rate is uneven, because its unevenness is the hope for all the downtrodden and those who despair.

Look at how our vision has changed with Jesus’ disruption of the quid pro quo of the world. The dry vines in our vineyard are still capable of yielding much fruit. And even when—especially when—our resources seem too meager to reach out our arms in love to the neighbor, we do it anyway, not to gain a reward, but because God’s salvation of the world works through our arms extended to another. The vertical is expanded into the horizontal.

The way of the cross is full of potholes and stumbling blocks that threaten to trip us up, but we walk it nevertheless, because in the detours and in the long, circuitous paths off the road, we find our neighbor. And then we find ourselves back on that beautiful path, not bartering our way along to heaven, but losing our lives so that God opens up a new a more glorious one to us.

A Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
August 30, 2020
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

[1] From the Collect for Fridays in Morning Prayer, the Book of Common Prayer

Holding the Keys

Somehow, in the past week, as I have moved onto campus here at Good Shepherd, leaving an apartment and church position in Center City, I have garnered twelve new keys. This is a typical part of transitions: you give up old keys and you gain some new ones. Admittedly, I need to do something about my current collection of keys. I have two very full key rings, and roughly ten or so of those keys all look the same.

At the very least, I must label them, because I have recently spent an inordinate amount of time trying various keys until I find the right one that fits the lock on the door before me. As I was writing this sermon, I discovered that I had inadvertently double-bolted a lock on the parish office door, and a parishioner couldn’t get in. Locks, doors, and keys are complicated. Sometimes, we shut people out of buildings without ever intending to do so.

In some ways, the metaphor of a key ring is apropos to what we in the Church spend a lot of time doing. We unlock and lock the doors of this parish church routinely so that people can be welcomed into this place as friends in Christ. But we also lock the doors at the end of liturgies so that the church can be kept safe.

If we extend this metaphor a bit further, we could say that in an age where the Church often seems to be unpopular, we are constantly in search of the right key to fit the lock, the lock to a new era of life in the Church, where God’s mission is reinvigorated, where pews are once again filled, and where Sunday once again becomes a day dedicated to the Lord.

And yet, I imagine that we frequently feel like I do, standing at one of the many doors on campus, fiddling with my key rings, and trying to find the right key for the lock in question. In the midst of this interminable pandemic, we have had to lock doors that we would ordinarily wish to remain open. We have had to shut the doors to large numbers of people, asking people to register for Mass online so that we can do contact tracing and avoid getting more than twenty-five people in this building. And from the perspective of the Gospel, it all feels quite wrong, although it’s, of course, the right and necessary thing to do for the safety of all. The Church, by the authority entrusted to her by Christ himself, should be in the business of unlocking doors.

This morning, the lectionary has handed us a famous passage in the Gospel according to Matthew. It probably goes without saying that these eight verses from Matthew have been some of the most hotly contested ones in Church history. And sadly, these verses, more often than not, have been used to divide Christians.

When Jesus entrusts Peter with the keys of the kingdom of heaven, he is also giving these keys to the Church herself. This Church, whose cornerstone is Christ, this Church who is built on none other than Jesus Christ the Righteous One, this Church has been given immense authority and power. But such power and authority are a double-edged sword, if you will, where the keys of the heavenly kingdom can be used for good or they can be used for ill.

Part of the reason that the Church sometimes lives in fear behind locked doors these days is because many have seen authority abused by her. Many have witnessed keys that should be opening doors turned into keys that lock people out. And this is precisely why the keys to the kingdom of heaven should be treated with reverence and awe. Those who hold the keys can build up the Body of Christ, or they can tear it down, perhaps even without realizing it.

Scripture tells us these keys of authority involve binding and loosing. You might recall that just two chapters later in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus will connect the powers of binding and loosing to practical behavior within the Church, where her members are charged with holding one another accountable in love. It is the God-given responsibility of the Church to treat the keys that bind and loose with holy reverence.

And judgment is bound up with the authority Christ has given his Church. I’m not speaking about a view of judgment in which Peter serves as gatekeeper at the pearly gates, deciding who’s in and who’s out. I’m talking about God’s judgment, in which the present life intersects, if only in glimpses, with eternal life. It’s a judgment that holds us accountable for how closely we choose to conform our lives to Christ’s so that all people become alive with God’s glory.

When, in this life, we choose to be bound by the grievances we hold against others, the doors to paradise can seem locked to us. When, in this life, we decide to be bound by old ways of doing things that have us beating our heads on the wall, it is hard to see an unlocked door letting in some of that light from heaven. When, in this life, we tightly grip our ring of keys and lock the door to those whom we fear or who threaten us with their different ways, the gate of heaven seems to be far in sight.

And it could be that especially in this time of civic unrest, worldwide violence, and pandemic, we might find doors closing that need to be closed, while other doors open before us. But if we peer through such doors, a new, redeemed future awaits.

We, here at the Church of the Good Shepherd, on a warm Sunday in August, stand at the threshold of such a door. In my first day here, I have just joined you at that threshold. And together, we hold the keys to open the door, because God has charged us to do so.

In this historic parish that has witnessed to the faith of Christ for over 150 years, we know there have been difficulties, challenging times, and sorrow. I don’t need to tell you that. Some of you, who have been here much, much longer than I, have seen doors close and others open. You have seen keys change hands many, many times. Perhaps you have even, from time to time, wondered if the doors of this very building would be closed forever.

But thanks be to God, these exquisite church doors are standing proudly open. And before they were closed for public safety due to the pandemic, they were open daily for private prayer. And with God’s help, these doors will remain open to many more years of worship, service, and fellowship.

So, as we stand on the threshold of this new door with our keys in hand, let’s look through together to see what it might be like on the other side. Imagine this.

Imagine these lovely wooden pews filled with people of all kinds, from many walks of life, young and old, rich and poor, lifelong Christians and newcomers to the faith, people with varying perspectives, but all of whom long to be united together around something larger than themselves. Do you see the children playing in the Children’s Space at the back of the nave? Do you hear the laughing voices of children heading off to Sunday School to receive those seeds of faith, planted and watered by us but given growth by God? What about the college students, seeking to hold their changing worldviews with something more true than mere secularism? I see, too, the parishioners who have been here for decades kneeling here at the Communion rail to receive the Blessed Sacrament. Do you smell the sweet incense floating to the rafters, while our brilliant Organist and Choirmaster improvises and the glorious choir raises its collective voice in song?

And across the way at 19 Montrose, you will find Chris, our new Director of Operations, warmly greeting guests to the Parish Office. See, too, the dedicated vestry in their conversations about caring for this parish. In another room, a group of faithful parishioners meet for adult formation, or for now, maybe they’re on the porch outside or in a Zoom meeting room. And perhaps on some future day, on the second or third floor of 19 Montrose, there is outreach to those in need by utilizing the wondrous gift of public space.

I could stand all day at this threshold and look into this glimpse of heaven on earth. I wonder if you see the same things I do, and I wonder what you see that I don’t see yet. We know all too well that heaven is not fully here and that this world does its very best to block the gate to it. But if we look carefully, we can get a foretaste of paradise to come, breaking in by fits and starts.

If we loose the bonds of old burdens, if we forgive the enemy and welcome the stranger, if we loose the constricting bonds of a haunted past and look to a redeemed future, and if we remain ready to unlock doors of new possibilities, God can do anything.

We pray to hold our ring of keys reverently, for we know that they can be used for ill or used for good. We rejoice in the responsibility and authority that Jesus has entrusted to his Church on earth. We pray that God will fill us with his life-giving Spirit so that we can unbind the fetters of injustice and oppression and unleash the powers of freedom and peace.

Let’s not be naïve, either. We will, from time to time, stand trembling with keys in hand, feeling like the powers of death are more than we can manage. We may shiver with fear because the future seems overwhelmingly against us. We may shake with anxiety over our troubled past, but hear this good news and take it to heart: Christ has made a promise to us, and Christ always keeps his promises. We, as living members of his Body, have made our home on a sure foundation. And the powers of death and darkness have no authority here, none. With God’s help and through the redeeming power of the resurrected and ascended Christ, it is never foolish to hope.

Now, if you will, let’s stand bravely on the threshold, hold your keys with holy awe, and let’s unlock the door to a future already known to and prepared by the God who makes all things new. Thanks be to God.

A Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
August 23, 2020
The Church of the Good Shepherd, Rosemont