Sermons at Saint Mark’s: The Shades of Sainthood

Submitted by Diana Butler Bass on November 9, 2007 - 6:01am.

All Saints Sunday, November 4, 2007
Ecclesiasticus 2:1-11; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-36

When preparing this sermon, I didn’t realize that this Sunday was baptism Sunday as well as All Saints. I’ve been an Episcopalian for 25 years, I should have. But my sermon today starts with the best theologian I know, in a very appropriate way for a baptism Sunday; my 10-year-old daughter, Emma.

This time last weekend we were in New York City for my daughter’s 10th birthday. We live in Washington D.C. When we asked her how she wanted to celebrate her 10th birthday, she said to us “Mommy, I want to go see Grease on Broadway.” So we made a big family trip of going to New York for her first ever Broadway show. The day after the show, we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a wonderful surprise at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, at least a wonderful surprise for me; the museum is currently running an exhibit on Dutch painting to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Rembrandt’s birth.

I love Dutch painting. Years ago, I had a great spiritual experience in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, standing in front of the painting, “Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem.” So there I was, holding the hand of wonderful 10-year-old girl and introducing her to the thing that I love. We walked around and I pointed out the Vermeers, and the Jan Steens when we arrived at the Rembrandts. I explained to her how the Dutch painters used light to depicts everyday scenes of life, and that light makes life so beautiful.

Emma looked up at me and she looked at the painting in front of us. She said “But, Mommy, it’s not the light that makes the painting beautiful, it’s the dark. The shade is what makes it so beautiful.”

Sometimes, on a day like All Saints, we think of sainthood as light, as the joy of God, the dazzling sunshine of the Holy Spirit. Indeed, entire faith traditions are built on the idea that somehow to be Christian means you are supposed to be happy all the time. Last weekend I spoke at a conference that was mostly made up of evangelical Christians. Someone at this conference asked me about the idea of Christian mission in a pluralistic world, “How will we interpret the great commission amidst all of this difference?” I said “I don’t know. That’s one of the most interesting theological questions we have in front of us at the moment. We might be able to answer it in about a hundred years.”

She looked at me as if I were some sort of heretic, in an attempt to comfort her, I responded, “But I’m not really very worried about it. Frankly, in this moment of life I am more worried about inviting people to be Christians because being Christian is a hard way. It involves suffering, doubt and pain.” She snapped back at me, she said “But what of the joy, peace and happiness; the blessing of knowing God? You would deny people that?” And I said “Well, of course not. But if you know a serious follower of Christ who experiences only happiness, please introduce me. Because as far as I can figure, the Christian way is not that. It is a hard path and a narrow gate, a way that involves suffering.”

That, of course, is a little bit of hyperbole but it is hyperbole with a point. In the United States, Christians as a whole community tend to emphasize the blessing of following God. But these texts today offer us an opportunity to reflect on the shades of sainthood. The readings suggest that sainthood is not only about light, but also about dark. It is about the contrasts of life, not just about blessedness and success. In classical language of Christian spirituality, this is called walking the way of both the Via Positiva, the positive way, and the way of the Via Negativa, the way of negation. We would rather have a positive way, but this other half, the “shades” that make Christianity beautiful, calls us to befriend the darkness, and, in the shade, find new wisdom.

Of today’s readings, the most clearly difficult one is the rendering of the Beatitudes in Luke. They are always a little shocking to read, and we do not read them very often. We prefer the gospel of Matthew’s poetic blessings, the ones about happiness: “Blessed are the poor in spirit..” There are eight of them, they’re beautiful. But Luke gives us a rather blunt rendering of them; blessed are you who are poor, hungry, sad and hated for you know God’s happiness. And then he does what Matthew wouldn’t dare to do; woe to you who are rich, full, happy and well-regarded - for you do not know the kingdom. At this point, I want to scream “Hey, let’s read Matthew instead!” We live in a society with an emphasis on wealth, satisfaction, happiness and freedom. We think that that is what Christianity is all about, too. So when we get to these woes we don’t want to hear them, we ignore them or interpret them as a condemnation - that all rich, happy people will be consigned to hell.

But what if it isn’t quite that? What if the woes are not a condemnation, but an invitation? To what is God inviting us? What if the woes are just a way of Jesus talking about the Via Negativa, the harder way, the shadows that give the Christian life meaning? Is it possible for the people that who live woefully to come to the kingdom?

Just this last week Pew Global Survey released a survey that they’d conducted across the world finding out that rich people are far less likely to be religious than the poor. (Some people will spend money on any kind of survey!) There are only two exceptions to that - the United States and Kuwait. Now this survey said that Americans are religious, but of course it said nothing about the quality of our spiritual lives, and that our spiritual lives are influenced by our wealth.

We all know that we are wealthy. Those of us who are serious Christians take pains to tell our children that, teaching them to be generous and good citizens in a world of poverty. We might feel a little guilty about it and we try to do something about it; giving our money away, while feeling bad, about ourselves. But rarely do we think of what a “woe” wealth is. Money makes us comfortable, self-sufficient, it makes us feel “smarter” than poor people, that we are more moral and more deserving. No wonder it’s hard for the wealthy to be faithful. Wealth makes us defensive; we want to hold on to our money, to protect it and we also want to protect the way of life that has made us rich. We are terrified of losing it. We will go to war over it. Wealth is indeed, a way of woe. A way of woe that takes us from God.

Now all four of Luke’s woes are like that; wealth, satisfaction, happiness, and regard all cause us to lean on our own resources, to defend our privilege. And if we came to this text with a sort of black-and-white spiritual logic like I did to those Rembrandt paintings last weekend in New York, I might say “Okay, I give it up. I will make myself poor, I will starve, I will go off of Prozac, I will be obnoxious about the gospel to make people persecute me for Jesus’ sake.”

But Jesus does not say that. That is only the implication we draw from the story, what we think that Luke’s beatitudes prescribe something we must do to be saved. But what if the woes in Luke are a description of sainthood rather than a prescription of one? This isn’t a call for us to become poor to go to heaven. It isn’t a call for rich people to despise themselves. Rather Jesus is just saying what is. That if you are poor you can walk in the joy of your poverty, that your way is a positive way, to celebrate God as God meets you. It will be easier for you to come into the kingdom.

If you’re rich, it doesn’t matter what American culture tells you, you live in darkness. The poor are called to walk in the light of the joy that they already possess, the rich are called to befriend the shadows of their wealth and privilege. Luke does not condemn us but rather he reports to us what Jesus says next, “I say to you that all you who listen to this—all you who listen—whether you are blessed or woeful - Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who abuse you. If someone strikes you, turn the other cheek. Give your coat and your shirt to anyone who asks.” And then, of course, “Do unto others as you would have them do to you.” Notice Jesus says to all who will listen, not just the poor, not just the rich. Jesus says whatever your state, whether you are already a way of the positive faith, of joy, whether you are poor, or whether you are one of the woeful rich, one who has to struggle with the dark of earth’s privilege, this way - this way is kingdom way.

Here on All Saints Sunday, I think that sainthood means to know our state. Where are we in this text? Are we the blessed or are we the woeful? And what does Jesus’ teaching mean wherever we are? Most people in this cathedral know that it is harder for the rich to understand their true spiritual state. Harder, but not impossible. It is harder for the satisfied to listen. Harder, but not impossible. It is harder for the respectable to act justly. Harder, but not impossible. We are called to befriend the darkness of our privilege and recognize that Jesus is calling us to a much more difficult way. It is a way contrary to our earthly interests where blessing is found by following kingdom virtues. Rich people will suffer more to enter the kingdom. That’s the truth of these texts. Harder, but not impossible. We can walk that way. We are not consigned to hell by the virtue of our culture. But we must listen to Jesus.

And so here we are: standing in front of a Rembrandt painting. It is not all light, the darkness makes it beautiful. The blessings and the woes are necessary to see the beauty of God, to see the way to the kingdom. And it is right here—in front of this painting—that the shades of dark and light touch. Sometimes you can’t even tell where the light ends and the shade begins. But without both there is no art. No vision of loveliness. I think that that’s what Rembrandt was trying to say to us in those great paintings. That his paintbrush was a way of expressing Luke’s blessings and woes. That his artistry points us to wisdom that all saints experience light and dark, the positive and the negative. And that sainthood is found in the places where they touch. I’m really grateful that I’m the mother of a 10-year-old girl who sees both the via positiva and the via negativa, and can point me to that kind of wisdom. Amen.

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