The Mask

Propers: The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 13), A.D. 2020 A

Homily:

Lord, we pray for the preacher, for You know his sins are great.

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Some believe “it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay; small acts of kindness and love.” So quoth the wizard Gandalf in the cinematic adaptation of Tolkien’s Middle-Earth.

Small acts of kindness and love are exactly what Jesus speaks of this morning when He promises that, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes Me, and whoever welcomes Me welcomes the One who sent Me … and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

The life of faith is rarely one of great adventures and great quests, going off to slay the dragon, charting some undiscovered country. For the most part it is small acts of kindness, small decisions of love, actively choosing every day to put the good of others before our own: spouses, children, neighbors, strangers, even enemies. It isn’t flashy or glorious in a worldly sense. It is humble and consistent and selfless and brave. The dragon we slay is the ego. Our undiscovered country is our soul.

It is only at the end of life, looking back on the choices we have made, the virtues we have cultivated, the sins of which we have repented, that the shape of things begins to look heroic. At the time it was just life, little choices, little toils. But from the perspective of eternity—to look at our life with Heaven’s eyes—we see the Light of Christ within us, how the undying flame of the Holy Spirit spread from us in innumerable invisible ways, enlightening and healing and forgiving this world, doing the hard work of resurrection through such earthly vessels as we are.

You want to be a hero? You want to do great things? Then swallow your pride and pick up your cross and love the people who are right in front of you. They may be annoying or tiresome or an outright pain in the butt. It doesn’t matter. They are nonetheless the image of God on this earth, the children of our Heavenly Father, the sinners for whom Christ has died. If we cannot see Jesus in the needs of our neighbors, we will not discover Him in the chalice upon the altar.

Our world sees things upside-down. We think that wealth and power and fame are what’s important, that they give worth to people. We think that we have to be like that, to be millionaires or movie stars or rock gods in order to be someone worth loving. But c’mon. We’ve seen how billionaires live. We’ve seen how Hollywood marriages go. Our celebrities and CEOs aren’t any happier than we are. In fact, they’re generally quite miserable—poor little rich boys and girls, all alone atop the heap.

It is the Cross that lets us see the world aright. It is the Cross that shows us the glory of God, dwelling as He does amongst the needy, the outcast, the persecuted, the oppressed. It is the Cross that reveals to us a love more powerful than power, a glory greater than fame, a life that outlives death. Our whole world is upside-down. And the Cross sets it aright.

So what does that look like today? What is the equivalent for us of offering someone a clear cold cup of water in the name of a disciple? Well—dare I say?—it might look like a mask. A silly little thing, it seems. Stuffy. Steamy. My mother made me this one. She made them for our entire family. In fact, she spent weeks sewing hundreds of masks for hospitals and all who needed them. Hundreds for those in need in the midst of a pandemic. That’s my Mom.

I’m afraid our Covid crisis is far from over. In fact, this past week infections in the US have hit record highs. Texas and Florida both reported 5000 new cases in one day; for California it was 7000. The EU is seriously considering a quarantine for us. Even Minnesota, of which I was so justly proud for our “steep decline” in cases, has now been downgraded to “steady.” All this for a disease that can largely be combated by wearing simple masks, keeping our distance, and washing our hands.

This isn’t a partisan statement. Or at least it darn well shouldn’t be. The science is simple. Most coronavirus infections stem from close, sustained respiratory contact, indoors, especially in settings of loud vocalization. Droplets in our breath spread the virus to people within a few feet of us. This of course makes worshipping together as a congregation one of the riskier activities in which we can engage, and is the reason for our rather strict safety measures here.

Wearing a mask isn’t about fear. It isn’t about politics. It is a simple, humble, everyday way by which we may choose to place love of neighbor before our own pride. And this isn’t a guilt trip if you don’t happen to have one this morning, or if you have perfectly legitimate reasons why masking up is not really an option for you.

But speaking generally, this is what bearing the Cross looks like. It isn’t the grand gesture that makes the evening news. It isn’t the giant check gleaned from bemused billionaires’ largess. It is small acts of kindness, small inconveniences, small sacrifices made for the good of our families, our neighbors, and strangers. Some might ask why God doesn’t snap His fingers and make the coronavirus go away. But God might ask why we don’t just put on a mask, and wash our hands.

Apologies if that sounds preachy, but I am a preacher after all. And I’ll confess that at times I enter public areas and feel silly about being the only fellow in a mask. At times I’ve even neglected the mask because of the way that people look at me. And that’s wrong. Preachers preach the sermons that they themselves most need to hear. I was hoping we were on the tail end of this, that we had it under control. That’s why we’ve re-opened the sanctuary, even in a limited capacity—because Minnesota’s numbers have looked so good! But this isn’t over. And small acts of kindness and love are still very much in need.

We gather together on Sundays and festivals throughout the week because here is where God promises to meet us: in the water and the Word, the bread and the wine. Christ is here in this congregation, alive in the Spirit, present in the Sacraments. Here is where God calls us in order to give us His gifts: forgiveness of sins, the truth of His Word, the joy of His presence, indeed His own Body and Blood poured out from the Cross for the world as a foretaste of the feast to come.

It is good that we gather. It is good that God gives us His gifts. And all that He asks in return—not as payment, but as a gift in itself—is that we spread this life of Christ, His Holy Spirit, out and about in the world every day of the week. We are the hands and feet and breath of Christ, still at work forgiving and healing and resurrecting this cosmos, until God at the last shall be All in All.

Come and be forgiven. Come and be reborn. Come as you are able—in person if you are safe and healthy, in spirit if you are vulnerable or sick—and then go out, sent out, to fight evil and keep the darkness at bay. Not by blaming or shaming. Not by invective or by force. But by choosing to be Christ, choosing to bear the Cross, in small, consistent, humbling ways, that put the good of our neighbor ever before our own.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.