Last night when I took off my watch before bed, I didn’t leave it where I usually do. That little mistake played havoc with my morning rituals, which is kind of ironic because—since my iphone also tells time—I barely even look at my wristwatch anymore.
Still, the misplaced watch and the consequent search for it unsettled me because I am a creature of habit. And why not? Many habits are good for us, like exercising or brushing our teeth. We might think of habits as that subset of behaviors which become unconscious through repetition. If our habits are unhealthy, we would call them addictions or compulsions. But good habits allow us to move through our days with grace and peace. If I get up in the morning and my coffee and my toothbrush and watch are in their usual places, I can be pretty confident that all will be well. At least until 9:00 am.
Habits are blessedly flexible, too, even though changing them can be uncomfortable. I recall, for example, how very hard it was to drive on the left side when my family lived in Jamaica during our missionary years. But its not like I felt trapped by my right-handed habits; I just had to get used to new driving behaviors, which required that I pay attention to things I had previously done without thinking. I actually had to see the world I was driving through in new ways.
“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth,” wrote John of the vision which culminated his Patmos sojourn. And this is just one beautiful image among many among these Eastertide lessons that burst with glory, love, lack of judgment and the certain presence of God. When I was pondering today’s lessons I found myself longing for that kind of beatific vision. Wouldn’t we all like a glimpse of heaven sometimes: a chance to really see the glory that God intends for the fullness of time?
But what we see is mostly what’s right in front of us. Take a look around. Holy Trinity looks very beautiful, but it’s also not especially different than I remember it being last time I was here, so I’m not likely to confuse it with a new heaven or a new earth. Let’s hold on to that very ordinary vision, though, because I want to return to the question of behaviors for a moment.
You know there’s another subset of repetitive behaviors—similar to habits—that we might call practices or even disciplines. The latter being etymologically related to the word disciple. And for good reason: repeating behaviors of compassion and justice are how we come to be disciples of Jesus. After a while, disciplines can become unconscious too—like habits—which I think is something of a neurological gift from God. It’s putting on the mind of Christ, as Paul describes it.
Disciplines resemble habits in the good and healthy ways, but they are distinct in that we choose them specifically because we want to be more like Jesus Christ. And they’re distinct also because they don’t run the risk of becoming addictive or compulsive. We might say that disciplines are the habits of free people acting on our best intentions, whereas addictions and compulsions are the habits that trap us in our worst behaviors.
So why this long digression? Because this glorious season of Easter is the season of freedom for we Christians. It’s a time when we are invited to recommit ourselves to the Lordship of Christ, and learn from him the holy disciplines that we want to live with. Even if we’ve tried and failed before. Our baptismal promises to repent and pray and proclaim and practice justice—with God’s help—might be good habits to start with. And if this seems intimidating, remember that the Holy Spirit—waiting right around the Pentecost corner—will give us the strength.
The promises of today’s readings—love for one another, freedom from judgment, the presence of God among mortals, an entirely new creation—are not just nor even mostly about the future. Depending on what’s happening in our lives, they might seem far from our present reality. But I’m here to tell you that they really are available to us right now. Perhaps not in their end-time fullness, but there’s plenty of new creation within our reach right now. Here’s the catch, though: we may have to change our habits in order to recognize and realize what God is doing through us.
Let me break that down a bit. Consider the love for one another that Jesus promises is the hallmark of disciples. The sentimentality we attach to love in our culture confuses the issue, but for Jesus and his disciples, love was not so much a feeling as a disciplined choice. We can love our enemies—really love them and wan the best for them—without feeling warm and fuzzy.
Or consider Peter’s vision that foods he thought profane were actually clean. We don’t have to wait for a vision: we can remember the word of the Lord—as Peter himself did—and leave aside our judgment of other people’s habits anytime. And that glorious new heaven and earth, where God wipes away every tear: we can take up the tissue and do likewise even now.
What would happen if we habituated (or better said, disciplined) ourselves to love one another, even when we don’t feel like it? If we did a fearless inventory of those behaviors we’re likely to criticize and exclude another for, and chose to leave the judgment to God? If we put ourselves in service of the brokenhearted and didn’t blame or try to fix, but simply wiped away the tears? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what would happen because—speaking for myself—I mostly don’t do all of these things. But I do know from experience that it’s possible to be in the presence of something new and different and not see it, because old habits limit my vision.
At the simplest level, the miracle of God’s new creation is like my watch. If keep looking for it in the place that it’s not, I’ll be nothing but frustrated. But it doesn’t mean the watch isn’t there for the finding.
Eastertide is our annual invitation to look again and try again to do things in new ways. So let me invite you to return to where we started, and look around you. It’s still Holy Trinity, it’s still a small worshipping community, and—against all odds—it’s still here. The mighty mission with a mighty mission. And it’s a haven of beauty and holiness in a city with too little of either; it’s a model of emerging multicultural community where most churches get stuck trying to figure out how to return to what they used to be. Holy Trinity may not be the new heaven and the new earth in all of its ultimate fullness, but it’s surely a preview.
Here’s the Eastertide Good News. Christ is risen, and that alone changes everything. But how do we know? Not because God has changed everything in the world—although I do believe that in the fullness of time God will remake heaven and earth—but because God changes us. Right now, and just as much as we are willing to be changed. Habit by habit, discipline by discipline, all things are being made new.
