“If only I had known”. How many times have I said something like that to myself? If only I’d known that it was going to rain, I would have fixed that leak. If only I’d known that my car was going to be broken into, I wouldn’t have left my purse under the seat. If only I’d known I was going to marry John and spend 35 happily married years with him, maybe I would have been less rude to him the first time we met in the computer lab at UC Berkeley. If only I’d known.
“If only WE’D known.” We could just as well say that on a community wide, national or global level. If only we’d known the impact of—for example—Governor Reagan’s choice to de-institutionalize the mentally ill. Or if we’d known the risk of pandemic due to a novel corona virus. If only we’d known about the connection between carbon emissions and global climate change. We might have done something different, right? Or… would we have?
I think there’s a fair case to be made that we actually did know. Or at least some of us did. And some of us preferred the status quo, even knowing the risks. Human beings are like that, God knows. We do not know the day or the hour, but we often know the consequences of not preparing.
But our ignorance—willful or not—applies to good things as well as bad. Would we have done something differently if we’d known that we were going to get that promotion? Or that we’d be reconciled with an estranged friend or family member? Or, as in the cases cited by the author of the letter to the Hebrews, that Abraham would have a child when his wife was too old, or that his son Isaac would survive an attempted sacrifice? Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. So our scripture tells us. We of a post-enlightenment culture tend to trust primarily in what we see. But maybe there’s another way of knowing.
Sell all your possessions. Be dressed for action. There’s a lot of different messages in today’s Gospel, and—whatever they mean for us today—their claim on us as Christian disciples is significant. But—thanks be to God—Jesus begins with the most important mandate of all. “Do not be afraid, little flock.” Hold on to that thought, as we bravely venture into the more demanding teachings of our Lord. Before things get confusing, Jesus begins with the most common phrase that prophets and angels say when announcing God’s immanent kingdom. Fear not, and then—even more startling— it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Do you hear that? God wants to give us the kingdom, with all of its joy and justice. If you take nothing else from this Sunday’s worship, remember these things. God is just dying to give us back the world as it was intended to be at the beginning of creation. And we really don’t have to fear the process by which God gets us all there.
Now, admittedly, every time a prophet or angel says “do not be afraid,” they’re saying it because there’s an objective reason for fear. Think of Mary, at the precipice of accepting an unplanned pregnancy in a culture where the consequences of infidelity might well be death. And I’m guessing that all of us are already thinking about the consequences of selling everything we have. And that’s even before we start to think about thieves coming at unexpected hours. Are you afraid yet?
Don’t be. Yes, this Gospel is about the cost of discipleship, which is not less than everything. But it’s also about the promise of discipleship, which is much more than everything. God did not come in human form to take things away from us, but rather to give things back to us. Give back what God has always longed to give us: an abundant creation, companionship with each other, and God’s own self, walking with us. One Bible commentary describes the allegorical burglar at the end of this Gospel as a holy kind of thief, coming to his own home to steal our false priorities and unjust structures. So that, freed from these burdens, we might know the fullness of joy and the justice of God’s kingdom.
After we’ve gone and sold everything, Jesus tells to make purses. But purses, they fill up and get messy. I know that as someone who carries one. How many of us ladies—and men carrying messenger bags, for that matter—have ever had to scour the depth of our bags to find the keys or the glasses or the one thing we really want? I don’t know what was indestructible purse-making material Jesus had in mind, but I like to imagine he was thinking of our hearts. Sized just right to hold only the treasures that really count. The ones that we can find right away, without having to pick our way through the detritus of half-eaten energy bars and chapsticks that have lost their lids.
And you know what, you already know what that treasure us for you. Maybe you need a little reminder—we all do—which is probably why we come to church week after week. Our treasure is relationship, with God and with each other. Our treasure is strange and ancient stories and rituals that remind us of God’s good intent towards us, and the certainty that God will put our human mess right in the fullness of time. Our treasure is sacrament, which is a foretaste of heaven. This is the treasure of our shared tradition, which we know by faith, even if we haven’t yet seen its ultimate fufillment.
Let me tell you a little story about knowing my treasure, and trusting in the insight of faith. You probably have similar stories of your own, and I really do hope you share them with one another and with me. But since my story is about you, I’ll go first. I was called here almost three years ago as your Priest in Charge. That’s kind of a “rent to own” clergy status; I was an interim priest who could be called as your dean. I loved the history and the potential of Trinity, but then came COVID and who knew what was coming next. And if anyone tells you they know what’s coming next for any Episcopal church post-pandemic, that would be fake news. None of us know what’s coming, not the hour nor the day. So at the beginning of this year I was far from sure the permanent call to Trinity was for me, and I know some of you weren’t so sure about me either.
But here I am, your fourth dean. I said yes to this call because somewhere along the way something became very clear to me: by the eyes of faith of faith, if not by sight. I have a treasure… and it is you! Your commitment, your courage and creativity are a manifestation of God’s own generosity. And together, we share a treasure, which is this 160 year old witness to a wise and inclusive expression of Christianity. On a corner in San Jose where it’s really needed. I don’t have to go riffling through an overstuffed purse to find the treasure that my heart holds dear, because it surrounds me every Sunday. With magical stained glass that winks at eternity, and music that fills the heavens with praise and fidgety children who teach us not to take ourselves too seriously.
Indeed, Trinity is our common treasure. We give of other things—time, talent and money—that we might worship in this holy place by faith, and preserve it for generations to come. Confident that, even though we may not know when, it is our father’s good pleasure to give us nothing less than the kingdom.
