The Common Denominator

In today’s class, we are going to deal with fractions. It’s that time of year, after all, with the return to school, even if it looks a bit different this year. You probably didn’t think you were getting into a math class, but today, we need to deal for a bit with fractions.

Do you recall how to add or subtract them? It’s fairly easy if you have the same number as a denominator in both fractions. For example, 1/3 + 1/3 = 2/3. But it’s much more complicated if you have different numbers in the denominator, such as 1/3 + 3/4. Then, you have to find a common denominator in order to add the fractions. In this case, it’s 12. So 1/3 + 3/4 is the same as 4/12 + 9/12. So, it’s really 13/12. Are you with me? It’s technical, I know.

Eventually, after you have some experience with fractions, your eye develops a special sense for immediately looking at two fractions and determining how difficult it will be to find the common denominator. If the denominators are 3 and 6, it’s fairly obvious. If 3 and 17, not so much.

We could say that finding a common denominator is a way of finding common ground, of finding some base level of unity. This unity does not presuppose eliminating difference. When finding a common denominator, a new denominator must be found in order to add or subtract fractions. In other words, both denominators have to be changed to something else in order to find common ground.

It seems to me that the climate in which we live is one that is not good at finding common denominators. In fact, we seem to relish trying to prevent finding such common ground. We want 3/8 to stay 3/8 and refuse to add it to 2/9. Neither fraction will budge. Even more so, 2/9 will try its mightiest to make a common denominator with 8 by squeezing it into a 9, which is, of course, impossible. These examples might seem silly if the current state of discord in our world today were not so tragic.

And there are value judgments attached to finding common denominators, because we think of the least common denominator. We assume that any budging and any attempt to get two different denominators to a common place means a devaluing of standards and settling for something less than it should be. In a world of extremes, shared ground is abhorred. But to find a common denominator, it is essential.

When Paul wrote to various house churches in his Letter to Romans, he was dealing with seemingly incompatible fractions that were not doing a very good job at finding a common denominator. It’s not entirely clear what disagreements Paul was addressing, but there seems to have been a dietary component involved. It may have been a tension between Gentiles and Jews, with Gentiles expanding their food choices beyond certain restrictions, but I’m guessing it wasn’t quite that simple. I imagine there was a lot more going on beneath the surface of the tensions. This was about a variety of religious practices.

And Paul, rather interestingly, kept these differences oblique. Paul had no interest in fomenting further division. Paul had much more of an interest in encouraging a common denominator. The differences in practice and viewpoints to which Paul referred were more than whether one ate or abstained from meat. The differences in behavior had led to value judgments, and this had led to disputes.

Those who had no qualms about eating meat, for instance, were looking down on those vegetarians they considered weak. The unfair implication was that those who had to have so many bounds around their eating habits were elementary religious people, who couldn’t be trusted to color outside the lines. On the other hand, those who refrained from eating meat must have thought that the meat eaters were carnivorous reprobates.

The sad reality is that it doesn’t take great mental stamina to enumerate similar examples from recent history or current situations. The examples are manifold. The whole basis of Christian colonization of less industrialized countries has been rooted in this mentality. Those who were “better-educated” or more “sophisticated” ventured across the world to “civilize” others, to make them “better people.” Or think of the battles around acceptable ritual practices within the Church. And within our own Anglican Communion, tensions over who can be validly ordained are still creating unrest and threatening schism.

If we’re honest with ourselves, we will each locate ourselves in one camp. Perhaps you’re in the camp of “the weak.” Or maybe you’re in the camp of “the strong.” But either way we slice it, we will find a camp to belong to, and over time, we might discover that we are digging our heels in, deeper and deeper. 2/9 is insisting that it can be added to 3/8 if only the eight will become a nine. But we know that will never work.

When we examine many of the divisions among us today, we can be tempted to write them off as intransigence, immaturity, or stubbornness. It’s a secular world gone out of control, you say. But it’s much harder to dismiss differences of opinion within religious circles and within the Church. Here, we find people dealing with ultimate value judgments and arbitrating within moral territory. A step into the wrong camp can be the difference between heaven and hell. 2/9 insists that it should keep its denominator not merely because it dislikes 3/8, but because 9 as denominator is the right one.

It might even appear that Paul is of no help in such disputes. What we hear from Paul today is perhaps even confusing. “Some judge one day to be better than another, while others judge all days to be alike. Let all be fully convinced in their own minds.” Well, thanks, Paul, but can you at least tell us which side is right? Or is Paul simply advocating libertinism or moral relativism? Surely, not the Paul we know!

We are so well trained to always expect a clear delineation between right and wrong. And we are so quick to attribute moral value judgments to various practices. Or is it possible that both sides—whatever those sides are—might be right and acceptable to God?

And yet if we read Romans carefully, we will find that Paul does not leave us hanging or give us mealy-mouthed advice. Paul shows us how to find the common denominator. And that common denominator is the Lord, the living God who holds loving discourse with us, who sends the Holy Spirit to direct and rule our hearts, and who endows us with the gift of reason and human intelligence.

Paul, this historically controversial figure, actually proves to be a generous thinker and one of the greatest theologians of unifying love, if we can only come to know him a bit better.  So what does he have to show us about God?

Paul reveals the ways in which our denominators need thoughtful adjustment as we try to add and subtract fractions. Each of us is only concerned with making the square peg fit the round hole that we have constructed. If we hold a view, it must be the right one, whether it is about religious practice or how we vote or what denomination we belong to. If we believe it and if we are passionate about it, then God unconditionally supports it.

And so, rather than letting God become our common denominator, we have used God to justify the denominator we have created. As Paul constantly points out in his Letter to the Romans, this is the root of all evil. The source of unrighteousness is when we usurp the place that belongs only by right to God.

By looking with contempt on those whom we think to be more conservative than we are, we forcefully commandeer the authority of judgment, that precious defense of God’s righteousness that belongs only to God. And if we look at those more liberal than us and piously pray for the reform of their wayward souls, we once again, hijack the moral fulcrum of the universe, which is God’s judgment.

But thanks be to God that we do not have to judge! Thanks be to God that we are specifically charged with tending to our own house and getting it in order, rather than paying for a team of housekeepers to invade our neighbor’s house. Far from being a license for individualism, getting our own house in tidy shape respects the moral conscience of our neighbor and, more importantly, lets God be God. Thank God that the world’s judgment is in the hands of our God who is “full of compassion and mercy” and “slow to anger and of great kindness.” Thank God that final judgment is not in our frail hands.

Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. We cannot run from our common denominator. And this is good news indeed. This means that two seemingly disparate fractions can ultimately be reconciled through the common denominator of God’s gracious love and compassion.

This is no excuse to justify any kind of bad behavior, injustice, or moral evil. But it is a reason to find self-humility and try to assume the best about our neighbors, to try to see that if they are doing something in honor of the Lord, it might be acceptable to God. And if it’s not, perhaps God can still wring good out of it in some wonderful way. We run into evil when we dig in our heels, raise the flag for moral righteousness, and claim that God is on our side, and ours alone.

Jesus Christ is Lord of both the dead and the living. Through his life, death, and resurrection, he has left no corner of the universe untouched by his grace, and he has graciously adopted us into a family of all kinds of interesting and diverse fractions, who can be united and added together to make one living Body, his Body here on earth. And to add and subtract all these myriad fractions, we need a common denominator, and that denominator is God alone, whose generous love and abundant mercy is beyond that which we could ever ask or imagine. And let us give thanks that the last word is God’s, and God’s alone.

A Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 13, 2020

Lifting the Needle

In the days when record players were more common, there was nothing more frustrating than a scratched record. First, you would notice the incessant repetition of one or two seconds of music, playing over and over again. Then your ear would be drawn to the irritating scratch of the needle stuck in the offending groove.

With no remote controls in sight or even in mind, you would have to get up from your comfortable seat and lift the needle on the record player, finding a smooth part of the record’s surface. And the music could play on, and all would be well.

What is it about the broken record that so grates on one’s nerves? Is it the knowledge that a priceless record is now defaced? Is it the abrupt disruption of an anticipated stretch of time devoted to musical bliss?

Or is it the sense of stuckness? By this, I mean the insistent sound of musical repetition with no clear trajectory in sight. It’s almost as if the music itself is scolding you: Get up, now, and save me from this rut. Because if you don’t, I will annoy you until you do.

There is something about being stuck—whether it’s a broken record or emotionally in our own lives—that is frustrating, even demoralizing. If we imagine our most downhearted moments, we might recall a feeling of intractability, of being unable to move backwards or forwards. Psychologists tell us that for those of us with obsessive thinking habits, the most constructive way of dealing with them is to disrupt the sense of stuckness. As painful as it may be, you must lift yourself out of the hole you’re in. It’s rather like lifting the needle on the broken record and skipping ahead to the place on the record’s surface that is unadulterated by scratches.

Practitioners of contemplative prayer tell us something similar. When meditation is plagued with unwanted thoughts, the practice of gently letting them go is a means of lifting the needle on the record player, in some sense, starting afresh. The intrusive thoughts are scratches on the record, and they get us stuck.

In the Book of Ezekiel, we hear today of God’s beloved people grappling with a sense of being stuck. You might easily overlook this amid God’s admonishments, calling out the wickedness and recalcitrance of the people, a state of being that can only lead to death.

We hear such warnings all over Scripture: turn from your wicked ways, because if you don’t, things will turn our very badly for you. But hidden in the midst of this language, in these five verses from Ezekiel, is a glimpse into the emotional and spiritual morass of God’s people.

God is speaking to the prophet Ezekiel and commanding him what to say to the house of Israel. He is God’s appointed watchman for the people, to announce their need for repentance. God tells Ezekiel how he shall describe to the house of Israel their current situation: “Thus you have said: “Our transgressions and our sins weigh upon us, and we waste away because of them; how then can we live?” These words are what God’s people have been repeating over and over again, whether aloud or in their hearts. They have been groaning in a feedback loop of the oppressive burden of their sins and transgressions.

And if we put these five verses in the context of the whole scope of the Book of Ezekiel, this sense of stuckness stands out in an even more pronounced way. For thirty-three chapters, Ezekiel has heard God’s convicting words towards a people gone astray. The scope of these words extends beyond the house of Israel to other nations, those historically at enmity with Israel. And finally at chapter 33, we are on the precipice of a turning point in the Book of Ezekiel. It’s like Moses standing on Mount Nebo and getting a first glimpse of the Promised Land.

Now, just as we are about to enter into a redeemed future, crowned with the glories of the New Jerusalem, once again, the transgressions of God’s people are revisited. They are rehashed. In the particular historical context of Ezekiel, God’s people are dealing with the trauma of the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians, and the catastrophe is seen as retribution for their behavior. The record is scratched, and they are stuck in the feedback loop. And the record scratches, and scratches, and scratches. . .

We have, in fact, all along throughout Ezekiel, been getting little promises of hope. These promises have balanced out the woes and condemnations. But for this hope to come to fruition, something is needed, and we hear of this today. God’s people must turn: turn back from their evil ways, the ways that lead only to death.

This posture of turning is not just some thing of the past. God indeed commands this of us as God’s people. It’s what Jesus constantly commanded. At Holy Baptism, we make a spiritual about-face from death to life, from sin to repentance, and historically in the Church, people enacted this by turning from west to east during the Baptismal rite. This is metanoia, repentance: turning back to face God.

We are familiar with this language, and yet, we may still get lost in the imagery of wickedness, death, and shame and forget what’s on the other side when we turn. We erroneously imagine a wrathful God who demands the impossible. We hear only vengeance waiting for us.

Truth be told, even when we get to the point of recognizing our need to turn back to God, sometimes we still remain stuck. Do you feel any resonance with God’s people in the Book of Ezekiel? They are stymied by their past misdoings and sinfulness. This fraught past weighs heavily upon them, and they perceive that they are wasting away. All seems to be sheer hopelessness.

Think for a minute of the things that weigh you down. Whether it’s systemic sin that we’ve inherited by virtue of our shared humanity or our individual faults, do you ever think you’re in a feedback loop and stuck? In the middle of a pandemic, do you hear the record scratching again and again because we’ve dug ourselves into a biological and spiritual hole of selfishness leading up to this time? Recurring reports about the fragility of our environment constantly remind us that we could be past the point of no return. Or do you, as an individual, ever imagine that you have finally committed the unforgivable sin, or just one too many sins, to ever be able to move forwards? Do you doubt whether you are worthy of being unstuck from your past? All of this can make us hear the record scratching again and again with no one in sight to lift the needle and move us forward to new music.

But there is an even more peculiar spiritual danger lying beneath the surface of the broken record. It may be that those of us who are most inclined to embrace God’s words of repentance are the most vulnerable to a certain kind of sin. I speak here of the especially pious and religious. Those of us who are all too ready to aspire to holiness are in danger of getting stuck.

There is a kind of perverse satisfaction in being in the feedback loop. Ostensibly, someone in the loop wants to be rescued and for someone else to lift the needle on the record and move them forward to new music. But interiorly, the person in question might relish being stuck in the scratch on the record’s surface.

Here in the groove of the scratched record lies a peculiar comfort, a comfort that is ensconced in immobility. Paradoxically, the obsession with repentance becomes a cover for not wanting to do the hard work of true repentance. Because Ezekiel tells us exactly what that work is in today’s reading. This work is being open to the possibility of a new, redeemed future. But in order to experience this future, one cannot be too proud to receive God’s generous gift of forgiveness.

There is no question that God calls each and every one of us to turn back from our evil ways to God. We will hear this call in just a few minutes as we confess our sins. But after we turn, we have to be willing to receive the gift of new life.

This is because God’s new future is a glorious road that leads all the way to the New Jerusalem. And when we allow God’s grace to permeate every crevice of our lives, the vision of a new kingdom is seen to cover every corner of this earth, not just our own little fiefdoms. Every place where economic justice reigns is affected by God’s recalibration. Every pocket of this planet where the lowly are stomped on by the feet of those more powerful is readjusted to the balancing point of God’s justice. In Ezekiel, we see the great vision of God defending the holiness that belongs, by right, to God. And by agreeing to turn back from our evil ways, God draws us into that recalibration.

We are told in no uncertain terms today what’s on the other side of that great act of turning: it’s life itself. There’s no life in the grooves of despair scratched into the surface of the record. God does not desire for us to stay in those ruts, licking our wounds and taking pride in our self-flagellation. God has no desire in the death of the wicked. God wants only one thing: for us to turn back to God and live. And if we will allow it, God is always poised, over the record player of life, ready to lift the needle on the player when we are stuck in the feedback loop. And we are placed into a new future, where the song of the new Jerusalem plays on and on.

A Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
September 6, 2020
The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

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