Homily for September 12, 2021
Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost
James 3:1–12
“Anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect,
able to keep the whole body in check.” – James 3:2
We’ll give Augustine the benefit of the doubt and say not that Augustine was unfamiliar with today’s reading from the book of James, but say rather that in a moment of candor with a dear friend Augustine momentarily set aside his familiarity with the book of James when, in a letter to this friend, Marcellinus, Augustine wrote,
“Cicero, the prince of Roman orators, says of someone that ‘he never uttered a word that he would wish to recall.’ High praise indeed! But more applicable to a complete ass than to a genuinely wise man.”
Though James and Augustine seem to say the opposite—“anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect, able to keep the whole body in check”; versus only a “complete ass” would never utter a word that he would wish to recall—what James and Augustine have in common is that both acknowledge that we all fail in the control of our tongue; we all say things we wish we could take back.
What can we do when we have said something we can’t un-say?
There is no hard-and-fast rule about what to do when we say something we wish we could take back—and there probably shouldn’t be, given the complexity of our circumstances. But the Bible has something to say about what we might do when we wish to take back what we have already said or done. Perhaps the Bible’s most famous story about what we can do when we might wish to take back what we have already said or done is the story of the Prodigal Son. Recall how the Prodigal, once he “came to himself” in that “distant country” where he had “squandered his property in dissolute living,” said to himself, “I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned…[and] am no longer worthy to be called your son…’” The first thing we can do when we say something we wish to take back is to acknowledge our fault, and to apologize to the one whom we have offended and to ask their forgiveness.
Now it may be that the one whom we offended will not or is not ready to forgive. Recall the older son who became angry and refused to go in and who said to his father about his brother, the Prodigal: “‘When this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’… And…he refused to go in.” Though we may apologize, it could be that the one whom we have offended may not forgive.
Though the other may not forgive, the third thing we can do is to nonetheless come to forgive ourselves. Again, recall the parable,
But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him… and said to his slaves… ‘Get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again!’
God can forgive us. Can we forgive ourselves?
Lastly, notice how at the son’s return the father does not interrogate; he does not drive home the son’s culpability or assert claims about his inadequacy; nor does the father insist on a period of probation or rehabilitation. Rather, the Father focuses on the present—“Quickly, bring out a robe, the best one, and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger, and sandals on his feet… Let us eat and celebrate!” About repentance and the present moment, Martin Smith writes,
Repentance… is not about erasing the past—we cannot erase the past—[repentance] has little to do with raking over the past and everything to do with coming to accept the here-and-nowness of Christ… who trusts us now to be expressions of his life, who now recruits us to be his “walking sacraments.”
James is right, and Augustine is right. “All of us make many mistakes,” writes James. Never uttering a word that one would wish to recall is “High praise indeed!” writes Augustine “…but more applicable to a complete ass than to a genuinely wise man.” We all say things we wish we could take back. When we do, we can 1) apologize and ask for forgiveness; 2) recognize that the one whom we offended may not forgive; 3) accept God’s forgiveness and hopefully begin to forgive ourselves; and 4) focus on the present, learning to see that in this present moment Jesus trusts us to be expressions of his life, to be his “walking sacraments,” who, though we may have fallen, yet are forgiven and redeemed, and who are called to manifest in our own lives now the risen life of Jesus Christ.
In today’s Gospel lesson, Mark refers for the last time in his Gospel to the Sea of Galilee. The first part of Mark’s Gospel takes place on or around the Sea of Galilee, but over the course of his Gospel Mark gradually moves away from the sea and from water until—excepting one passage—water disappears entirely from Mark. All the great stories from the opening of Mark—Jesus’ baptism, the call of the disciples, the ministry in Capernaum, the feeding of the five thousand, the stilling of the storm, the Gerasene demoniac, Jesus walking on water, 
In her novel
About a [now] former President of the United States, Salena Zito of The Atlantic Monthly once wrote:
As it has for the last few Sundays, our Gospel this morning comes from John chapter 6. Though John chapter 6 is perhaps best known for Jesus’ so-called “Bread of Life” discourse, what is often overlooked in John 6, and what may be key to understanding this rich and meaning-filled discourse, is the setting. John 6 takes place on either side of the Sea of Galilee, which John also calls “the Sea of Tiberias” (6:1). Jesus feeds the five thousand on one side of the sea, then crosses back to Capernaum for the “Bread of Life” discourse. By this crossing—a crossing that takes place in the dark, with a strong wind, and in which the disciples are terrified to see Jesus walking toward them on the water—[by this crossing] John says in effect, “We are now crossing over; crossing over a threshold of language, meaning and symbol; we are crossing into a sacramental place whose outward and visible signs happened on one side of the lake, but whose inward and spiritual graces only become manifest on the other.”
Augustine—never one to let a good line get away—in a homily on today’s Gospel from John chapter 6, quotes Virgil, from Virgil’s Bucolics: “Trahit sua quemque voluptas”, which means, “Each one is drawn by their own delight.”
The 18th century English clergyman John Wesley once remarked that many Christians have religion just enough to make themselves miserable. The crowd following Jesus in today’s Gospel might well be numbered among those who have religion just enough to make themselves miserable. For though the crowd has “religion” and follows Jesus, they follow for the wrong reasons. As we heard last week, the crowd wanted “to take him by force to make him king.” And in this week’s Gospel Jesus says, “You are looking for me not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” The crowds follow Jesus for the convenience of bread rather than for the truth of revelation; the crowds have religion just enough to make themselves miserable.
My paternal grandmother was from—as she would say—“the Old Country.” She was also a daily reader of the Boston Globe, with a particular interest in any story about her native Italy. Once, after reading about a terrible earthquake that struck the region of Italy from which she had emigrated, she commented aloud, and in an especially accusatory tone of voice: “Well, I guess that God must be asleep.” Little did she know that she was in the excellent company of the disciples in this morning’s reading from the Gospel according to Saint Mark. And, for that matter, who among us would not own a similar sentiment following the last fifteen months of the continuing COVID pandemic? I, for one, will readily confess to sharing her dismay at times over an apparently silent God, and to have cried many times over, along with the terrified disciples in today’s Gospel, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 
Does anyone recognize this story (anyone besides our resident children’s librarian)…? It is “The Garden,” from the collection Frog and Toad Together, by Arnold Lobel. As you may recall, Toad goes home and plants the seeds, and…. Well, does anyone not know this story, and would you like to hear it? Or even if you do know it, would you like to hear it? (It takes about two minutes.) Because I must admit that during the pandemic I have been envious of Daryl reading to some of our young people, this morning I’ve asked Daryl if she might please read to us.
Rabbi Schlomo Yitzchaki, an 11th century French rabbi better known by the acronym made by his initials, “Rashi,” once said about Genesis chapter 3 (from which we heard this morning) and God’s question to Adam in the garden, “Where are you?” that