So, when I first started out as a seminarian, I did some time at St. Timothy's, on Signal Mountain, Tennessee, outside of Chattanooga. Now in Chattanooga, wealth and elevation tend to go hand in hand, and living on top of the mountain meant that, more likely or not, you got there through hard work, money, and success. St. Timothy's was a suburban church of well-to-do movers and shakers, and let's just say, that I had a fair share of skepticism as to what these people were all about. They were sure to be snobs, turning their noses up and all of the valley folk.
So, when I got there, the rector at the time, John Talbird, wanted me to take the eight o'clockers under my wing and make that service my service...see if there any changes that needed making and get the folks to go along. I was being tested, you see. But I didn't know at the time.
Now two things off the bat, here. First, the folks of St. Timothy's 8:00 service were fairly old and believed in doing anything clergy said when it came to worship. And second, while they had a lovely altar rail, they didn't come to it; instead, they lined up for communion, and this was over a decade before pandemic has kinda sorta changed things. Every Sunday, they would just single file it up to the priest, and single file it back to their seats.
Now, I was in seminary, taking liturgy classes, so I was, of course, brilliant. And since Lent was coming up, I made the suggestion that we come to the altar rail and kneel. That would be a nice, penitential way to show reverence. And given that these were Signal Mountain folk, I was sure that they weren't kneeling because they felt that were above kneeling in reverence to anybody else, no matter how divine that person may be.
Fr. John smiled a bit, then he said, “OK, let's see what happens.” So we made the announcement that next week, Lent 1, we'd kneel at the altar. Nobody said a word.
That Sunday came, and when it was time for communion, everyone came up and knelt. Including the old, OLD matriarch in the back. Then when it was time for her, she got up and hobbled her way down the aisle. She got to the rail, clutched it, and struggled to kneel down. But she did. She received communion, and as she struggled to stand, it was clear on her face that she was in terrific, excruciating pain. Then she hobbled back.
And it was clear at that time and place how wrong I had been. These people were not stuck up rich people who refused to kneel to the Ruler of the Universe. These people had chosen, in some unspoken way, to show kindness. If one old lady couldn't kneel, none of them would.
It wasn't something they bragged about, and if that cocky seminarian wanted to try something different they were game. But still, what I learned that day taught me a lot about people I thought I knew and held a mirror up to my face.
Today James says, “But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves. For if any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.”
How often that mirror is held up to us in this day and age. We hear scripture, from the prophets, to James himself, warn us to not just hear God's Word, but to follow the living Word, by caring for the widows and orphans, or put more broadly, by struggling for justice and equity, for love and equality, for the stranger in our midst and for those struggling in every land and corner of the earth.
But when the mirror is held up, so many of us serve the interests of the wealthy and let the rulers of the earth and powers of this realm get away with whatever they want just because they’re in power or registered to vote the same way we do. And when so many of them quote scripture after scripture after scripture, it can be hard to suss out what the Word of God truly is.
Sometimes it is, but., frankly, it’s not so hard as to paralyze us with indecision and inaction. God’s interest is made clear to us throughout scripture. Love God, love your neighbor. Love your enemy. Yes, even that enemy. Serve those who no one else will serve. When James says “care for widows and orphans,” sure we can do that directly, and should, make no mistake.
But the widows and orphans aren't alone. There are far, far too many people -- individuals and groups -- that are swept aside, better to be forgotten than even noticed. At least, better to be forgotten, if you serve the interests of the world.
What does an act of service for a nobody on the street get you? Do you get ahead, get that raise, win life's lottery because you stopped to serve the least of these? Not in this world. Maybe you get a pat on the back, but you’re not going to get the corner office because you dropped a quarter in somebody’s cup.
The claim God makes on us, though, says it’s not about gain. We don’t serve because of what it might get us. Among other things, God’s interest is to remove the temptation to see our interactions with other people as transactional. Because we believe in God, we serve God’s people, all of them. We don’t earn anything in doing so, we simply are the fruits of God’s love, and it is by these fruits, by us, that the world comes to know that love.
There’s a wonderful line from the former archbishop of Brazil, Helder Camara. He said, “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a Communist.”
Now, I’m not trying to saying God wants us to be Communists. With all its failings, just like any human-designed system, Communism falls short of God’s interest.
Whether you’re here or Haiti or Afghanistan or Canada or wherever, if you’re a Christian, serving God isn’t about economic systems or means of governance or whatever, it’s about promoting God’s interest.
Sometimes that means marching in the streets for justice. Sometimes it means confronting the powers that be and demanding a decent living, a decent wage, decent food, and decent housing for the least of us. Sometimes it means giving out meals in the breadlines, and sometimes it means asking why there are breadlines in the first place.
And sometimes it means standing in line with an old, old woman to receive communion.
James doesn't ask us to take on the entire universe with righteous anger all the time. But he does ask us to do something, anything to show the world that we, as Christians, have looked in the mirror, listened to the Word made flesh, and acted on it.