Sisters and brothers, let us “be doers of the word, not merely hearers.” Be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger; care for orphans and widows in their distress. Did you know that there are more than 100 imperatives in the Letter of James? The list may be long, but at least it’s finite. So the expectations are clear; just do these things and you’ll be all right with God.
Meanwhile, one commentary described our Gospel lesson from Mark as “straightforward and self explanatory, not needing theological commentary.” Give up fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly.” In other words, just don’t do these things, and you’ll be all right with God.
Got all that? Class dismissed.
Of course the do’s and don’t do’s of today’s lessons are really the same message, and it has less to do with particulars—which are to some degree culturally specific—than with the fact that the behavior of faithful people does matter. We cannot think our way into being disciples of Jesus. Any more than our Baptisms or heartfelt conversion experiences are the “one and done” of life in Christ. The things we do and leave undone—day after day—are important.
Which may seem entirely self-evident to us: the very fact that we are in church this morning indicates that we want to do the right thing. Except that—James and 100-plus imperatives notwithstanding—its not always so clear what the right thing to do is. You’ll notice, for example that Jesus’ teaching about evil intentions was in response to criticism that his own disciples were not doing what they were supposed to. The tradition of the elders required several layers of cleansing of bodies and foods and vessels before eating; good and right actions, no doubt, that Jesus’s own followers had evidently left undone.
It’s a bit difficult to get our 21st-century minds around the importance of ritual cleanliness in first century Judaism. Although we surely have our non-negotiable equivalents. They may include anything from cherished personal habits like the way we prepare our morning coffee to shared cultural rituals like what we wear to the big game. Or imagine for a moment if someone walked into St. Stephen’s this morning wearing a bathing suit. We’d be nice about it, but we’d probably be worried. Because like the Scribes and Pharisees, we notice the absence of culturally-approved behaviors.
Even though I just said “class dismissed,” allow me to be didactic for a moment and define some terms. If we think of behaviors as things we do, with or without intention, we might think of the related concept of practices as intentionally chosen behaviors. If we do them frequently and consistently, practices become second nature to us, which can be a great thing if—for example—we are trying to learn a new skill or undertake a new exercise regimen.
There’s a subset of behaviors and practices, however, which are of particular interest to me as a Christian and an Episcopalian. In deference to James Smith, author of a beautiful book called “Desiring the Kingdom,” I’ll call them liturgies. According to Smith’s definition, liturgies are repeated behaviors—practices—that are shared by a community and also have a telos—a vision of the kingdom—that drive them. Liturgies are practices with a Godward intention, so to speak
Like a fitness program, liturgies rehearse us in good behaviors that can over time become second nature. But they do more than that: liturgies also have the potential to shape our very desires in God-ward directions. That is, to change our hearts to resemble God’s heart.
Liturgy is what we do on Sunday mornings when we practice Jesus’ table hospitality in the Eucharist. But that’s not the extent of it. For example, over the past couple of years I have been very deliberate about giving away money during Lent. You could call that a liturgical behavior, because Lenten almsgiving is a practice affirmed by the Christian community. And my particular Godward intention was to give to everyone who asked—and to give more than pocket change—without asking questions. Because I wanted to avoid the practice of judging poor people.
Now this is the kind of practice a person could get very proud of and brag about in church, if one were so inclined. But that’s not why I am telling the story, especially because I actually failed in what I set out to do. I was not able to give away all the money I intended to. And what I discovered was that—although I live on the border of a very poor part of Oakland where a lot of people panhandle—I am mostly in my car rather than on the sidewalks where the need is. My heart was in the right place, but my practice did not actually support that Godward intention until I got out and walked.
So when we engage in liturgical practices, are we making our intentions right in the hopes that our behavior gets better, or are we making our behavior better in the hopes that our intentions get right? Well, yes.
Mark gives us a clue to the relationship between our behavior and our hearts in the word translated as hypocrite. In contemporary terms, a hypocrite is someone who says one thing and does another, right? Hypocrites are people in whom we see a dissonance between words and practice. But the Greek Hypokrisis is less judgmental; it means something more along the lines of acting out a theatrical role or pretending. Which makes sense to me: embodied creatures that we are, how would we change our hearts except through trying on new behavior? Sometimes we just have to fake it ‘til we make it; trusting that our Godward practices will change our hearts, and that our hearts will heal our hypocrisy.
“The fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so,” prayed the great contemplative Thomas Merton. “But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always … I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me… alone.
Amen.
