On Thursday, after the Candlemas Mass, a few of us were cleaning up following the potluck dinner, and someone commented that it’s difficult to see the church building at night. That’s true. Despite its size, you could easily drive past this church at night without even knowing it’s here. There’s virtually no light on the outside of the building.
So, those of us doing the dishes after the potluck supper imagined how helpful it would be to install lighting that would illuminate the façade of the church. Someone pulled up pictures on a smartphone of beautifully lighted church buildings. We gawked at them and wondered how that might even be possible here at Good Shepherd. How many more people might be drawn to stop in for prayer or even a weekday evening feast day Mass if they saw the church ablaze with light, both inside and outside? After all, if no one knows we’re here, how can we be a light to the world?
But lighting the exterior of the church is only one step towards Christian evangelism. Let’s face it. There are many churches that are well illuminated and have engaging signs but no people in the pews. There are plenty of churches that have the wherewithal to invest in extensive social media campaigns in the hopes that they will reach people with the Gospel. But does it always translate into Christian discipleship? I don’t disagree with these evangelistic methods. In some cases, I think that we at Good Shepherd would benefit from a more robust engagement with the world outside the stone walls of this church, whether illuminated or not.
And yet the fact remains that despite social media engagements, illuminations of stone facades, and neighborhood canvassing, the Church is too often not seen as a light to the world. Some would say that it has lost its salt. No matter how grand our buildings are and no matter how central our locations may be, more and more people seem not to be interested in who the Church is and in what she’s doing. The Church may be a city set on a hill, but there’s no light on the exterior. People act as if we’re not here.
As a parish priest who is passionate about the Gospel, I wonder a lot about why this is. And as I pondered the familiar words of St. Matthew from today’s Gospel, I realized that perhaps the answer to this predicament lies deep within the walls of our buildings. The answer is found even beyond the evangelistic actions of the faithful in the pews. The answer lies hidden within our hearts.
We are given a clue towards this answer in the words the celebrant prays at every Mass. They are frightening words if we’re really listening. Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. . . Here in this place, we are laid bare before God. Here in this place, as the Church gathered for worship, there are no secrets. So, could it be that the Church is decreasingly seen as relevant to those outside her walls because we are not always good at telling the truth?
This might seem controversial. My experience has been that the most faithful in the Church can often be the quickest to take offense at any intimation that the Church is broken or, at times, dishonest. And perhaps this says it all. If we can’t even be truthful about our imperfection, how can we be salt to the earth? How can we be a light to the world if we keep certain corners in the shadows?
But the truth is that I do see in the wider Church, and across denominations, a fear of telling the truth. From within the Church, I see a tendency to excuse poor behavior by using confidentiality as a veil of secrecy. I see within my own self the proclivity towards trying to keep certain things from God in my prayer, as if I could ever succeed in doing so. I see a desire to sweep under the rug the haunted moments of the Church’s past rather than giving voice to them. I see people encouraged to lead double lives. There is no shortage of convincing excuses about why we shouldn’t tell the truth.
And all this flies in the face of what St. Matthew is urging us to do. In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tells us to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect. Matthew knew quite well that we could never be perfect in this life, so the irony here is that we are becoming perfect by acknowledging most honestly our imperfection.
Like it or not, the Church is a city set on a hill, illuminated for all to see. Those on the outside are not meant to look only at our beautiful stone walls or stained glass. Those outside the Church are meant to watch us tell the truth. The Church is commanded by Christ to tell the truth. We are commanded to be a place where there are no secrets.
The Church has within its sacramental power, the means to tell the truth. Ironically, the Sacrament of Reconciliation is what teaches us how to avoid keeping secrets. When we come before God in the presence of a priest to confess our sins, the seal of confidentiality of the confessional is morally absolute. It's the most confidential place on earth. And yet, it’s a wholly public act. Confidentiality does not mean secrecy. The Sacrament of Reconciliation is the truest place of trust because there the deepest, darkest secrets are unearthed and voiced into the loving embrace of the Church. In this place, there are no secrets. There is no judgment except by God. In confession, we learn best how to tell the truth.
We then move from the safest and most confidential place on earth into the world to be salt that seasons its monolithic, spineless conformity. We’re called to be light to a world that delights in turning the light off in certain seedy corners. The salt we bring to the earth in our honesty has an uncomfortable bite at times. In a time when most people are expecting only sugar from the Church, we are nevertheless asked to bring some spice, to keep ourselves and the world honest. Salty truth can sting when it hits the wounds of our world, too. But in this full authenticity, we let our light shine before all so that they may see our good works.
Our good works are not simply acts of charity or kindness, our responses to social injustice, and our faithfulness in showing up for worship. Our good works are the visible manifestations of truth-telling in our lives. Our good works are seen when we become a community where there are no secrets, but only shared trust, a place where we can tell the truth and still love one another.
This does not mean that we break confidence. It means that when we agree to have no secrets, we agree to be fully honest before God, we acknowledge our frailty, and we build a place where the Church is the most trusted place on earth. And above all, it means that others see in our actions the rigors of the Christian life into which we have been baptized.
Here in this parish, I see truth telling. We haven’t been shy about naming the unsavory parts of our history. We haven’t tried to sweep them under the rug. And at the same time, we have also acknowledged that our past does not define our future. Being honest about our past secrets has helped us find new ways to heal. Being honest about our past has allowed us to submit to the new creation that Christ is preparing out of the old. Being honest means that redemption is always a possibility.
I rejoice that this is not a place for secrets. I rejoice that what I see among you is trust, openness, and transparency. No one must lead a double life here. At the Altar rail, we find our deepest truth telling. We confess with mind, heart, and body that we’re broken and in need of healing. We confess that although we don’t always agree, we trust that God will help us live together in love. We open the deepest corners of our hearts as we receive Christ’s Body and Blood into our bloodstream. Here, there’s nowhere to hide. And that is not scary, but comforting, because God wants to take our secrets and redeem them.
One day, perhaps the exterior of this church building will be better illuminated, drawing more people’s eyes to this glorious place. I hope they will stop, drop in, and see with their own eyes the trust and love within its walls. It’s all so very good. But more than anything, what I hope they see is not kind conformity or complacent congeniality but truth-telling. What I hope they will find most inspiring about this place is that here, we have no secrets.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany
February 5, 2023