Sermons

I am fascinated by religion. I am. Yet oddly it has only recently begun to intrigue me. Most of my life, probably like you, I saw religion, the religious with indifference. If it floats your boat, no one gets hurt, you do you.

An early encounter with religion for me was the Hari Krishna.  Southern California in the seventies, there were a fair amount of orange-clad-head-shaved-chanting folks handing out flowers and beads.  Lots of them; maybe it was the climate.  Barefoot in a thin cotton gown works in San Diego.  They seemed nice, but I was never attracted.  I don't like sitting on the ground.

              Another early encounter was a Pentecostal service.  It was wild, speaking in tongues, gyrating, shouting, wailing, prophesying, laying on of hands.  Growing up charismatic, it was a moment of revelation to see: there is tame charismatic and then there is not so tame.  Though not my cup of tea, I didn't judge, despise.  They were different.

              I was indifferent.  This came clear leaving Israel.  Asked by a security person, "what holy sites did you visit," I gave the wrong the answer.  "I visited archeological, historical sites, which became places of devotion and considered holy."  This answer prompted a much more thorough interrogation where I realized the right answer, "I went to many holy sites."

              My first answer was true.  Some might consider the Church of the Holy Sepulchre a holy site; in 2000 I saw the church as a fascinating remnant of 4th century Byzantine architecture recast by the crusaders in the 12th.  True, but not true enough for security purposes in Tel Aviv.

              The closest I came to religion, or the religious, was a great aunt and her partner.  Aunt Eileen and Sister Leone were nuns from Nebraska, teachers, who came to stay with my grandparents every summer.  Two nuns who drank beer, played cards, and watched soap operas.  They were fun, funny.  Not the classic posture of nuns.  Perhaps they were part of my respectful distance.  One need not join a religious order and live in Lincoln, Nebraska to enjoy All my Children and a cold beer.

              My most troubling encounter with religion, though, was a matter of fashion.  On my first trip to Africa I was asked to bring and wear a clergy collar.  I declined.  Not my deal.  Within moments of stepping on to the continent I discovered this was not a matter of preference or fashion.  If you are clergy and you do not wear a collar in Malawi, people think you are trying to trick them, trying to hide something, pretending to be something you are not. The sky didn't fall, but my preference caused a lot of extra work.

              As penance, the next spring I chose to wear a collar every day during Lent.  Intriguing.  Not wearing a collar in Africa caused confusion, wearing one here caused a lot more.  Lots of questions.  Ultimately, I was saved by having made many poor fashion choices in the past.

              As I lived each day collared during Lent there were interesting features.  My children loved it, and by love, I mean, loved the opportunity to ridicule.  Soon I was known as "Father Fred" and "Johnny, Johnny Cash" as I was now ever dressed all in black.

              The most interesting was the power of the collar.  We call it the magic collar in our house.  Wear a clergy collar in an airport and devout Catholics magically appear all asking if you need anything, if they can carry your bag, could they get you something to drink.  One attendant on a flight from Nairobi to London simply looked at me in coach and said, "oh, no, father, this will not do."  I was then escorted to business class.  Magic collar.

              The other magic of the collar is not good.  Wear a collar in a mall, park, stadium the death stares are crippling.  It didn't help the Spotlight story of clergy abuse in Boston had recently come out.  But I have felt this stare for years after.  There is a palpable, visceral anger, a glare saying, "you are bad; you hurt children." 

              The religious collar conjures both good and bad. 

              Not sure when the change began, but I have changed.  At some point I went from being indifferent to being intrigued. Mildly interested to fascinated.  Part of the change was spending years studying medieval pilgrimage.  Visiting Jerusalem, Rome, and Santiago de Compostella changed me, made me see religion as something I want to appreciate.  I also read a lot of monastic literature, visited monasteries.  Monasteries are profound, a challenge few recognize.  These last few years of research on Gothic cathedrals deepened my curiosity even more.  Without question there would be no Gothic cathedrals if it were not for religious orders.

              Where I saw the change mostly though was discovering the root of the word religion.  Basically, religion, its etymology, means rule, discipline, order, self-control.  You can see it in a word like "disciple."  To be a follower, a disciple of Jesus, is to follow his discipline.  To be a monk or a nun you take a vow of obedience to a rule.  There's a rule written by Benedict for the Benedictines to follow.  They have been following it for 1400 years. Religion means rule.

              This is not the common definition of religion, religion as rule.  Most of us associate religion with zealotry or frenzy or extremes, beads and funny clothes and statues in bathtubs on front lawns.  You hear this when people say, "I am not religious," as if they have some common sense.  You can certainly hear this in the hatred people have for religion.  The disdain.  Everything from Marx's "opiate of the masses" claim to the bizarre belief I hear from time to time: "religion is the source of all war."  I don't argue with people but being a better historian than theologian I want to say, "more wars have begun over a stolen horse than over religion." 

              People hate religion.

              Our reading today from Luke doesn't help this disdain.  The Pharisees look awful in their silence.  Should we help someone on the sabbath?  Silence.  Would you not help a hurting animal on the sabbath?  Silence.  We interpret the silence of the Pharisees, the religious, as hypocrisy and the zealotry loving the rules more than loving people. 

              This is a good interpretation.  The Pharisees, the religious, look bad because they're afraid of breaking the rules.  Fear of breaking the rules is key to understanding the ongoing debate between Jesus and the Pharisees.  The religious leaders and Jesus were always fighting over the purpose of religion.  Pharisees believed religion was the rule, the way unto perfection and perfection would bring the kingdom of God and the kingdom of God is a good place. So don't break the rules.  Be perfect.  Jesus believed the kingdom of God was here and now, already; it was a place you enter with humility and abide there with courage and compassion. Compassion was the goal of religion for Jesus, not perfection.  Two very different religions.

              Our reading today is a bit of trap.  The trap is found when we say, "Jesus is right again.  Don't be so uptight.  Be nice to people.  Don't be fearful like Pharisees." Not a bad interpretation, but not the best.  The rub, the challenge of our reading is recognizing how Jesus is not dismissing religion, he is demanding, prescribing, instituting one of his own.  He is not rejecting religion; he is making one. His religion, his rule is compassion.  What is more, his religion is not understanding we should be compassionate; the religion of Jesus is finding the power to be compassionate. Jesus healed the man.  He did the good.  

              Religion for Jesus, the rule, is not something we understand per se.  The Pharisees knew they should be compassionate; they knew better, but they could not act.  This is the key to the rule of compassion.  Understanding compassion is of no value if you do not act. Where the Pharisees believed following the rules perfectly made you better, Jesus said, loving your neighbor makes you better.  If you give your life away in compassion, you will live better.  This is the religion of Jesus, becoming better through compassion.

              Consider: do you want to be better?  Not other, not something odd or extreme, but simply better?  Don't you?  Isn't there a part of each of us working hard, trying, struggling just to be better?  A better man, better woman, better spouse, better friend, better parent.  Not perfect, not the best, not an icon or saint for all to follow.  Just better. 

              Our lesson today and the next twenty to follow all beg the question of better.  How does following Jesus, his rule, his religion, how does this make us better?  Religion should make you better, right?

              Whenever I ask this question, the desire to be better, I think of someone who was not very religious in the traditional sense, but someone who was very disciplined, very focused, very determined to be better.  His name was Henry Stanley.  You know him from his legendary meeting with the missionary David Livingstone where Stanley says, "Dr. Livingstone I presume."  During his lifetime Stanley was famous not only for finding the lost missionary; he was also famous for his devotion, his determination, and mostly his sympathy.

              Stanley crossed the continent of Africa four times.  He did this starving, malarial, under attack, more than once imprisoned.  People were fascinated by Stanley not only for his wild adventures, but for his ability to come out alive.  Stanley survived where most died and this made him very famous.  He survived, not once, but many times. Mark Twain said of him, no one will remember me, but they will remember Henry Stanley.

              A recent trove of his papers and journals revived interest in the adventurer, explorer.  What scholars found in some ways dispelled the mythic character, the one outlasting others by grit, determination.  In place of myth the real Stanley appeared.  He was a man who followed a strict discipline, kept a vow to the end, but he was also a man guided by the rule of compassion. Although not his intent, Henry Stanley lived the religion of Jesus.  The rule of compassion will save you.

              How scholars came to see this is odd.  Trying to understand why he survived and other didn't, they discovered a curious habit, a key to his success.  No matter what Stanley kept to a strict daily routine.  No matter how ill, how hungry, how much in danger, he would shave.  Sounds odd, but scholars came to see the wisdom.  He started each day with a habit, a rule, a discipline.  Again, doesn't sound like much, but even his peers recognized this.  Stanley kept a rule, a habit, no matter what.  Where others lost all sense of order, Stanley kept his rule. 

              This small habit though was not an end in itself.  The daily habit was one of many to help him strive, keep going, move toward the great goal of compassion.  For Stanley, the great goal was the end of slave trade.  This is what led him forward, guided him. This was the love pulling him through the mire and illness, the hunger and danger of the jungle. He wanted people to be free.

              Jesus didn't reject religion.  He created one, offered a rule.  It is a very simple religion.  With humility and courage give your life away in compassion and you will be free.  This is the rule, the religion of Jesus.  Jesus had compassion for the man.  The Pharisees were silent and did nothing. Fascinating.    

              Consider: Henry Stanley lived the religion of Jesus not knowing he was being religious.  He could because the key to religion is not in knowing; the key to religion is doing.  With humility and courage he sought to bring compassion.  This saved Stanley.  Humility and courage living compassion for others saved him.  Perhaps such will save us too.  Amen.    

Speaker: Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

January 4, 2026

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