Sermon_10_7

"The Power of Prayer - Faith in Action"

A Sermon by the Rev. Charles Caskey
Interim Rector
St. Thomas Episcopal Church
Battle Creek, Michigan

Date: October 21, 2007

The theme of the parable in Luke’s Gospel for today relates to the power of prayer as faith in action. I wish that all of you could have been present on Thursday as the Companions of Christ met to talk about our own prayer life. The discussion began with how each of us first learned to pray. For most of us it began with what we heard and home or in church. I think all of us learned to say the following prayer at bedtime:

“Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake.
I pray the Lord, my soul to take. AMEN”

In some ways this is a scary prayer to teach a child at bed time. Isn’t it? Yet for most of human history and in much of our world today, the death of children is to be expected. In so many ways, children are like the poor widow in our parable, pleading before the wicked judge for justice. Like this poor widow, children have no power. If a child is born in Darfur or Somalia, what chance do they have to live? “If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Most children die before the age of five in the world’s poorest countries.

With the failure of legislation to provide medical care to uninsured children, this prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray my Lord my soul to keep,” may be the only hope for more and more of our own children. Like widows in Jesus’ time, poor widows and children in our country are seen as a drain on community, state, and national resources. Ironically, because of child labor laws in this country, poor children have no economic value..

Notice, however, that prayer is not mentioned at all in the parable. Instead, the widow is moved to pursue justice through action. On one level Jesus offers an image of God as hard-hearted judge--a spiritually bankrupt authoritarian figure to be worn down by human badgering! It is known that this parable was told in the early church so that folks would not give up putting their faith and prayer into action during persecution. Charles Hoffacker tells this story of faith from the life of the Russian author Alexander Solzhenitsyn as he lived for many years in Soviet prison camps in Siberia.

…. Along with other prisoners, he worked in the fields day after day, in rain and sun, during summer and winter. His life appeared to be nothing more than backbreaking labor and slow starvation. The intense suffering reduced him to a state of despair.

On one particular day, the hopelessness of his situation became too much for him. He saw no reason to continue his struggle, no reason to keep on living. His life made no difference in the world. So he gave up.

Leaving his shovel on the ground, he slowly walked to a crude bench and sat down. He knew that at any moment a guard would order him to stand up, and when he failed to respond, the guard would beat him to death, probably with his own shovel. He had seen it happen to other prisoners.

As he waited, head down, he felt a presence. Slowly he looked up and saw a skinny old prisoner squat down beside him. The man said nothing. Instead, he used a stick to trace in the dirt the sign of the Cross. The man then got back up and returned to his work.

As Solzhenitsyn stared at the Cross drawn in the dirt his entire perspective changed. He knew he was only one man against the all-powerful Soviet empire. Yet he knew there was something greater than the evil he saw in the prison camp, something greater than the Soviet Union. He knew that hope for all people was represented by that simple Cross. Through the power of the Cross, anything was possible.

Solzhenitsyn slowly rose to his feet, picked up his shovel, and went back to work. Outwardly, nothing had changed. Inside, he had received hope.

[From Luke Veronis, “The Sign of the Cross”; Communion, issue 8, Pascha 1997.]

While God is not a hard-hearted judge, holding on to the hope that things will change, that God does love me as I am, and that I can put my faith, however weak it may be, into action on behalf of myself and others, somehow leads to faith and much, much more.

However, our faith is not automatic; nor is it given forever, if it is not nourished. Faith grows and matures through prayer as well as through the practice of the justice that is asked of God. Faith is a gift and a task.

As I was looking for the right words to share the experience of faith-filled prayer that is a part our lives today and as we shared together on Thursday morning in the meeting of Companions in Christ, I was drawn to the thoughts expressed this week by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton. She begins with the last verse of the Gospel.

And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?
Luke 18:8

…. at first glance, this question seems a bit of a throwaway line, to have little to do with the story about the importunate widow and the unjust judge, who ends up granting her request more or less in self-defense.

But there aren't many throwaway lines in scripture -- writing was too laborious in those days. This one has much more to do with the nagging widow than it appears at first, and the reason centers on a particular idea of what faith is.

Mostly, we think of faith primarily as an irrational acceptance of propositional statements about God's action, a serene capacity to accept things that don't make any sense on their own. We often speak of faith when there appears to be no hope at all, as we normally experience hope -- We must have faith, we tell each other, in much the same tone Dr. McCoy used when he'd turn to Captain Kirk and say, He's dead, Jim.

But the widow isn't very serene. She knows the judge can help her, and she won't be quiet and leave him alone until he does. She knows there is justice, knows the difference between right and wrong, and she fights for it. Her faith is in the goodness she knows is rightfully hers, the primal orderliness of things before everything fell apart. And now we're onto something, because that yearning for the primal order, for the goodness that's supposed to be ours and has gone missing, is just how faith in Christ begins. We don't usually discover faith when things go well for us. We usually find it first when things fall apart, because that's when we realize we need it.

I'm not sure faith has much to do with serene acceptance. Faith is a long and sometimes difficult conversation with God, a conversation that lasts a lifetime, once it gets going, and can get pretty loud here and there along the way. There isn't anything we can say to God that will break that relationship, no matter how nasty we become. Over time, it becomes part of us; we come to understand that human beings have faith the way we have toenails. God just is, in our lives, and we come to know that we do not exist apart from that being, whether we understand it or not.

All that is good must be restored, we say to ourselves and to God. This is broken, and it must be fixed, we say. That, believe it or not, is the voice of faith.

All right, God says, I will fix it and you will help. But it will take some patience on your part, more patience than I see you have. And, in that small exchange, the repair of the world begins.

+Barbara Cawthorne Crafton
The Geranium Farm "FAITH: A LOT LOUDER THAN YOU THINK"
October 17, 2007

-- Charlie+



	"The Power of Prayer - Faith in Action" A Sermon by the Rev. Charles Caskey Interim Rector St. Thomas Episcopal Church Battle Creek, Michigan Date: October 21, 2007 The theme of the parable in Luke’s Gospel for today relates to the power of prayer as faith in action. I wish that all of you could have been present on Thursday as the Companions of Christ met to talk about our own prayer life. The discussion began with how each of us first learned to pray. For most of us it began with what we heard and home or in church. I think all of us learned to say the following prayer at bedtime: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake. I pray the Lord, my soul to take. AMEN” In some ways this is a scary prayer to teach a child at bed time. Isn’t it? Yet for most of human history and in much of our world today, the death of children is to be expected. In so many ways, children are like the poor widow in our parable, pleading before the wicked judge for justice. Like this poor widow, children have no power. If a child is born in Darfur or Somalia, what chance do they have to live? “If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Most children die before the age of five in the world’s poorest countries. With the failure of legislation to provide medical care to uninsured children, this prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray my Lord my soul to keep,” may be the only hope for more and more of our own children. Like widows in Jesus’ time, poor widows and children in our country are seen as a drain on community, state, and national resources. Ironically, because of child labor laws in this country, poor children have no economic value.. Notice, however, that prayer is not mentioned at all in the parable. Instead, the widow is moved to pursue justice through action. On one level Jesus offers an image of God as hard-hearted judge--a spiritually bankrupt authoritarian figure to be worn down by human badgering! It is known that this parable was told in the early church so that folks would not give up putting their faith and prayer into action during persecution. Charles Hoffacker tells this story of faith from the life of the Russian author Alexander Solzhenitsyn as he lived for many years in Soviet prison camps in Siberia. …. Along with other prisoners, he worked in the fields day after day, in rain and sun, during summer and winter. His life appeared to be nothing more than backbreaking labor and slow starvation. The intense suffering reduced him to a state of despair. On one particular day, the hopelessness of his situation became too much for him. He saw no reason to continue his struggle, no reason to keep on living. His life made no difference in the world. So he gave up. Leaving his shovel on the ground, he slowly walked to a crude bench and sat down. He knew that at any moment a guard would order him to stand up, and when he failed to respond, the guard would beat him to death, probably with his own shovel. He had seen it happen to other prisoners. As he waited, head down, he felt a presence. Slowly he looked up and saw a skinny old prisoner squat down beside him. The man said nothing. Instead, he used a stick to trace in the dirt the sign of the Cross. The man then got back up and returned to his work. As Solzhenitsyn stared at the Cross drawn in the dirt his entire perspective changed. He knew he was only one man against the all-powerful Soviet empire. Yet he knew there was something greater than the evil he saw in the prison camp, something greater than the Soviet Union. He knew that hope for all people was represented by that simple Cross. Through the power of the Cross, anything was possible. Solzhenitsyn slowly rose to his feet, picked up his shovel, and went back to work. Outwardly, nothing had changed. Inside, he had received hope. [From Luke Veronis, “The Sign of the Cross”; Communion, issue 8, Pascha 1997.] While God is not a hard-hearted judge, holding on to the hope that things will change, that God does love me as I am, and that I can put my faith, however weak it may be, into action on behalf of myself and others, somehow leads to faith and much, much more. However, our faith is not automatic; nor is it given forever, if it is not nourished. Faith grows and matures through prayer as well as through the practice of the justice that is asked of God. Faith is a gift and a task. As I was looking for the right words to share the experience of faith-filled prayer that is a part our lives today and as we shared together on Thursday morning in the meeting of Companions in Christ, I was drawn to the thoughts expressed this week by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton. She begins with the last verse of the Gospel. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth? Luke 18:8 …. at first glance, this question seems a bit of a throwaway line, to have little to do with the story about the importunate widow and the unjust judge, who ends up granting her request more or less in self-defense. But there aren't many throwaway lines in scripture -- writing was too laborious in those days. This one has much more to do with the nagging widow than it appears at first, and the reason centers on a particular idea of what faith is. Mostly, we think of faith primarily as an irrational acceptance of propositional statements about God's action, a serene capacity to accept things that don't make any sense on their own. We often speak of faith when there appears to be no hope at all, as we normally experience hope -- We must have faith, we tell each other, in much the same tone Dr. McCoy used when he'd turn to Captain Kirk and say, He's dead, Jim. But the widow isn't very serene. She knows the judge can help her, and she won't be quiet and leave him alone until he does. She knows there is justice, knows the difference between right and wrong, and she fights for it. Her faith is in the goodness she knows is rightfully hers, the primal orderliness of things before everything fell apart. And now we're onto something, because that yearning for the primal order, for the goodness that's supposed to be ours and has gone missing, is just how faith in Christ begins. We don't usually discover faith when things go well for us. We usually find it first when things fall apart, because that's when we realize we need it. I'm not sure faith has much to do with serene acceptance. Faith is a long and sometimes difficult conversation with God, a conversation that lasts a lifetime, once it gets going, and can get pretty loud here and there along the way. There isn't anything we can say to God that will break that relationship, no matter how nasty we become. Over time, it becomes part of us; we come to understand that human beings have faith the way we have toenails. God just is, in our lives, and we come to know that we do not exist apart from that being, whether we understand it or not. All that is good must be restored, we say to ourselves and to God. This is broken, and it must be fixed, we say. That, believe it or not, is the voice of faith. All right, God says, I will fix it and you will help. But it will take some patience on your part, more patience than I see you have. And, in that small exchange, the repair of the world begins. +Barbara Cawthorne Crafton The Geranium Farm "FAITH: A LOT LOUDER THAN YOU THINK" October 17, 2007 -- Charlie+
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