Vicarious Living
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost - October 19, 2003
By
The Very Rev. James Hubbard,
Dean Interim
- Isaiah 53:4-12
- Psalm 91:9-16
- Hebrews 4:12-16
- Mark 10:35-45
(From The Lectionary Page)
The man and the woman were free to live life to the full. They had no irksome responsibilities. Their food was provided in abundance, all sorts and varieties. They could arise at dawn or at noon. They could retire at midday or sunset. There was work to be done, meaningful work in a wonderful, accepting environment. And they were pioneers in their work—no one had gone before. There were few restrictions, but amazingly enough it was these restrictions which became their downfall. They became obsessed with what they were asked not to do rather than living delighted with life as they found it. And finally, as you might have guessed, they did what they were asked not to do, and the whole tenor of their lives changed. They lost the freedom of their former existence, and they had to work for their food. Just that task alone took so much of their time that the whole concept of meaningful work changed. Their physical safety began to be in doubt whereas before they were completely and utterly secure. Shelter had to be found or build near where their food was grown. All was different for them, and for their subsequent children and for you and me, for this is the story of first man and the first woman.
Ever since, the simple weight of living has pressed upon us. But the truth is that even now much of what we need is provided for us. Provided in the resources of a bountiful planet, and provided in the work, thoughtfulness and provision of those who have gone before us. About 18 years ago my father died. It is hard to believe that it has been that long. In some ways I did not know him very well; in others, I knew him extremely well, but one thing was always clear to me. He was a hard worker, often working two jobs. And through his work he provided for me, milk and potatoes, meat and vegetables, a roof over my head, and clothes on my back. I went to school and making modest achievements I am able to provide food and shelter, time and love for myself, my wife and at one time our children. But it was my father and mother who made possible the time for me to go to school. Unless they had been willing to spend the hours of their life providing for me, I too would have been spending my time getting food and providing shelter.
It is true that none of us carries the full weight of our own existence. Always there are others who have gone before. There have been soldiers and civilians who have given their lives for freedoms we enjoy. Politicians and statesmen have created laws enabling us to drive down the street relatively safely in automobiles invented and built by unknown others. There is a sense in which we live vicariously, that is, we benefit from the sacrifice, the work and the creativity of others. That’s good news. Otherwise, life would be much different, much less hopeful, and much more difficult.
In the realm of spirit, it is much the same. Now this realm is not so obvious, not so understandable, but just as real, just as important, just as necessary. The disobedience of that first man and woman carried with it the scars of sin, which you and I carry today. The truth is, according to the writer of our Epistle for today, that nothing of our sinfulness and continuing disobedience is hidden from God. He sees us as we are. He is living and discerning us physically, spiritually and mentally. Nothing from him is hidden. And that would be bad news except for one man—we have one, Jesus, who has gone before us, who has taken it upon himself to win for us acceptance through the things which he himself suffered. Because of him, we are invited to live in Gods presence.
There is a fable of a shepherd who searches the dark night for firewood. He stumbled onto an outcast in the moonless waste. As they got over the jolt, the shepherd invited the outcast to his fire. The man wavered, and then agreed. But as he walked he kept faltering and finally demurred. “You do not really want me at your fire.”
The shepherd reassured him. They walked on. But as they edged toward the firelight, the outcast stopped and turned. “As you wish, “the shepherd said. “You remain welcome.” The shepherd moved into the warm light and the outcast followed slowly, eyes on the ground. His face was ghastly. He was a leper.
The shepherd looked directly at him and smiled: “Over here is warmth and no smoke.” The leper gazed at him for a moment. Then he said: “Yes. Thank you.” And he smiled for the first time in long years.
This is a fable. It has no moral, but it does have a point which ties in to what we are saying. The leper did not ask to come to the fire, he was invited. We do not ask to come into the presence of God; we are invited, because of the vicarious provision of Jesus Christ.
Because Jesus died on the cross for us, God is able to invite us freely into his presence and there share with us his bounty. We do not earn it, deserve it or understand fully why we are there, but so it is.
In his satire, The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis takes us with a busload of ghosts who have made an excursion from hell to heaven with a view to remaining there permanently. They meet the citizens of heaven, the “solid people.” One very Big Ghost is astonished to find in heaven a man, who on earth, was tried and executed for murder. “What I’d like to understand,” he explodes, “is what you’re here for, as pleased as Punch, you, a murderer while I’ve been walking the streets down there and living in a place like a pigsty all these years.” The solid person tried to explain that he has been forgiven, that both he and the man he murdered have been reconciled at the judgment seat of God, but the Big Ghost isn’t having any of it. The injustice of the situation staggers him. “My right!” he keeps shouting. “I’ve got to have my rights same as you, see!” “Oh, no” the solid person assures him. “It’s not as bad as that. I haven’t got my rights or I should not be here. You will not get yours either. You will get something far better.”
In today’s Gospel, James and John are making a request of Jesus to sit with him when he comes into his glory. Obviously, the author is writing from the perspective of the resurrection. And Jesus responds to the two who are seeking special favors, by asking them if they can drink the cup he drinks, and be baptized with the baptism with which he will be baptized? Two or three matters are obvious here. One, the cup and the baptism are references to the primary sacraments which we have even today. Two, it is clear that these sacraments, baptism and Eucharist, refer in this setting to Jesus suffering on the cross. The cross is the cup he will drink, the blood of the cup is the suffering endured for you and me. The cross is the baptism he refers to, a baptism by fire, so to speak, a baptism of suffering, a vicarious baptism, a vicarious cup. But that baptism, that cup is to become the focus of life for John and James, for you and me, [and for little William and Lydia who will be baptized into the death and resurrection of Jesus this morning.] When the cross becomes my focus, I will live life differently. In the light of the dawning realization that it was in the baptism on the cross, the Eucharist of the cross, my living will become more thoughtful, more thankful.
The story is told of the Anglican priest, John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, that he came to the assurance and the joy of his salvation as he attended a meeting of German immigrants, Moravian Christians, in London in the year 1738. He had been a priest for years, but in this meeting he found the joy of his salvation. Here he fully realized that his salvation was the result of what God had done for him through Jesus. Wesley had heard that a thousand times. He had preached it. He had taught the doctrine for years, but now the events in his life had prepared him to hear it. In essence, the doctrine says that what we want out of life, the peace we want, the self-assurance we want, the fulfillment we want, cannot be earned by our own efforts. They are a gift. When our asking ceases, grace begins. That’s the message Wesley heard. Later, he described in his Journal what happened. “I felt my heart strangely warmed, and I felt that I did trust in Christ, Christ alone for my salvation. And an assurance was given me that he had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death.”
Well, how can you and I have that assurance, that peace, that God has through Jesus invited us into his presence? How can we enjoy fully this good news? I will invite you to do so in the following way. First, let us come to this altar more aware of the cost of salvation which is yours and mine, a cost paid by someone else to your benefit. In that awareness let us be thankful. Second, having become more aware that our salvation comes entirely without our effort, let us gladly go out to serve others as Christ serves us. Let us begin by some particular act of service. Is there someone you can visit, or write, or call? Is there some particular need you can meet? I invite you to focus on the cross in thanksgiving that our salvation has there been provided, intentionally vowing to serve someone else in some particular way. You invite someone to the fire; you bring someone to the love of Christ. Who will it be?