If you were to ask me to describe the core, the heart,
of Christian theology, this is what I would say: our
faith is rooted in the story of a transcendent and
relational God who comes close to humankind,
who becomes Emmanuel, God with us in Jesus
Christ, incarnate, living among us. As the eminent
theologian Willie Jennings has written, ours is “the
story of a people created by God and called to God’s
self.” In Jesus Christ, God entered our lives in a way
that has radically transformed us. We are shaped by
his story. At least, we ought to be.
Like the Old Testament Prophets in whose tradition
it stands, the letter of James confronts us with
the sinful distance between God’s call and our
response, the gap between our words and our work.
Earlier, in the second chapter, his example hits close
to home. James critiques the way members of the
church welcome wealthy guests with great formality
and give them the best seats in the sanctuary,
while the poor are disregarded and made to stand
in the back. Their pious posturing creates a kind of
spiritual self-importance, a belief that belonging to a
Christian community is a badge of honor to be worn
rather than a call to serve to be lived.
James has no patience for elegant performances,
elaborate propositions, or eloquent proclamations
that do not serve the needs of neighbors. His point
here is utterly unambiguous. We can understand
and believe all the intricacies and technicalities
of Christian theology. We can have all the warm
feelings and deep convictions. We can memorize
and quote chapter and verse of scripture and shelter
ourselves in the smug satisfaction that we are God’s
favorite children. But unless our faith leads to action,
we are condemned by the very Gospel we preach.
Faith without works is dead. A church with no
mission is doomed.
And so, I am grateful to be part of a congregation
of disciples who are so passionate about finding a
variety of ways to serve. You know that the clearest
demonstration of what we believe is the way we live.
And so, in your own life as disciples of Jesus Christ,
you reach out with acts of extreme generosity,
compassion, and kindness. And I, your pastor, am a
witness to these actions on a daily basis. I see and
hear and know how faithful you are.
But I also know that not far from here, there are
neighbors who lack even the most basic necessities
for sustainable or flourishing life, and we have been
called to serve.
I also know that right here among us, there are
those who have given up hope that anyone will
notice them today, and we have been called to care.
I also know that not far from us, there are those who
live in constant fear of violence, and we have been
called to act.
I also know that not far from us, there are those who
are systematically left behind and shut out, and we
have been called to speak up.
I also know that not far from us, there are those
whose power can be better used for the common
good, and we have been called to confront.
I also know that not far from us, there are those
whose lives lack deep purpose even as they are
surrounded by many things, and we have been
called to bear witness.
Yes, not far from us, there are those who need what
we have to give, and those who have what we need
to receive. And we, the body of Jesus Christ alive
in the world, have an unmistakable, inescapable,
undeniable call to put our faith in action, to embody
the transformation that the story of Jesus makes
possible.
And hear this, Second Church: that transformation
begins right here, in this sacred, beautiful space.
Why? Because our worship is the source of our
service. Consider this: faith without works is dead,
but works without faith are fleeting and short-lived.
We must be grounded in the story of salvation that
makes our service sustainable and sturdy.
Jesus described his purpose this way: the Son of
Man did not come to be served, but to serve. And
so it is with those who follow him. When all is said
and done, this is why we were given the gift of life in
the first place—to offer it back in service to others.
Last Sunday, you might remember, we anchored
ourselves in the act of listening well to the voices
and stories of others. Today, we are charged to
serve. And both of these essential acts—listening
well and serving—require humility, compassion, and
relationship.
A couple of years ago, Bryan Stevenson spoke for
the Faith in Action forum hosted at Butler University.
Several of us had the opportunity to go and hear
him. Stevenson founded and leads the Equal Justice
Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. In his book Just
Mercy, he describes growing up poor in a racially
segregated community in Delaware. The seminal
moment, the turning point in his life, came when
his grandmother sat him down and said, “You can’t
understand most of the important things from a
distance, Bryan. You have to get close.”
You have to get close. He calls it the power of
proximity. It changes us.
Last week, I voiced my concern about the
destructive and corrosive impact of contempt. One
of contempt’s particularly pernicious powers is how
it distances us from each other—how contempt
for those around us gives us a pass to ignore their
suffering, or even to blame the suffering when their
needs make us uncomfortable or uneasy.
Proximity renders contempt indefensible. Put
another way, you cannot dismiss or despise any
person whose voice you have heard and whose life
you have witnessed firsthand. Getting close changes
the way we read statistics and listen to stories.
Proximity renders contempt indefensible.
A brief testimony. On Maundy Thursday, I found
myself in desperate need of a haircut. It was lastminute and spring break week, and so I did a quick,
frantic search for barbers in the area. After a couple
of failed attempts, I found a salon that is part of a
large national chain (with over $1 billion in revenue
in 2019). When I walked in, I was warmly greeted
and immediately taken to my chair. And as the stylist
began, she placed her hands on my shoulders, and
she said, “You are stressed.”
“Why so tense?” she asked. I patiently explained
that I was a pastor, and it was a busy week. The
barber responded, “You’re a pastor. Well, that’s a
blessing. Now, relax. For just a few minutes, let your
worries go.” I looked at my watch. I did not have a
few minutes. But there I was, stuck in that chair. So,
I took a deep breath, and then I noticed that there
was a picture on her mirror in front of us. Two young
boys playing outside. They appeared to be about
the ages of my own sons, and so I asked her about
them. We talked about our children. We laughed
together about the precocious things they say and
do. And when the haircut was over and she was
walking me to the counter to pay, she asked me
where that church I pastored was. When I told her,
tears appeared in her eyes. She said, “From my boys
and me, I want to thank you for having a food pantry.
Your church has been there for my family when we
needed help. Nobody over there judged us. Thank
you, Pastor.” I stumbled out of the salon, barely
making it to my car before breaking down.
Now, like you, I know the statistics about the
working hungry—those who work full time jobs
and still cannot afford food for their families and
stable housing. I had read all the stories. I had seen
the documentary. And like many of you, I could
diagnosis the problem from a distance that enabled
my disinterest. But that day, I was standing faceto-face with a human being whose life was now
connected to my life. I know her name, the names
and ages of her sons. Coming close changes us.
Proximity renders contempt indefensible.
Or, listen to James: words without actions lack all
life. They’re dead. When you know someone, it
changes the way you think about them. When the
violence in the headlines touches your family, your
school, your neighborhood, it changes the way you
think about what ought to be done to stop it. When
you see faces and hear voices, you cannot be still
and you will not be silent.
And now, research is finding what James knew
intuitively—that this proximity has the capacity to
lift those in need. I heard it again this week from a
social worker at a local elementary school when I
asked her about what separated those who found
a way out of poverty from those who could not. Her
answer was: connections, relationships. Proximity
renders contempt indefensible.
So, in the months ahead, we at Second are going to
be diving more deeply into the kinds of relationships
that might offer mutual transformation, if only we
trust each other enough to be vulnerable. We are
going to welcome firsthand the power of proximity,
listening to neighbors whose lives may feel distant
from our own, and we are going to find that this
distance is a myth—a lie.
What we will find instead is that our fulfillment is
entirely bound to the flourishing of our neighbors.
We will find that all of us are harmed when any of us
suffers. We will find that our deepest purpose can
only be discovered when we invest our lives in what
matters most, discovering the truth of Jesus’ words:
that those who give their lives away in service to
others will find a more lasting joy than all who live
small lives of self-interest and preservation.
We are a people formed by the story of a
transcendent God who chose proximity over power.
And we can do the same.
Actually, that’s not quite right. We must do the same,
for so much depends on this. Amen.