I have a good friend who loves English choral music. Give him recordings of the music of Charles Villiers Stanford, C.H.H. Parry, and Herbert Sumsion, and he couldn’t be happier. My friend once told me about an experience he had while attending Choral Evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. He was overwhelmed by the gargantuan building and by the sound of the organ reverberating for ten seconds in the room after the last chord was released. The sheer size and beauty of the building was of jaw-dropping splendor. The music was utterly superb. It was like a little glimpse of heaven. And as my friend recounted the story in his heartfelt and colorful way, he said that he was so moved by the service that he simply wanted to take his American passport and throw it at the altar.
I had to laugh when I heard this story, because I know my friend was using a storyteller’s license to make the story engaging. The telling of the story was to some extent hyperbolic. But the fact remains that the sentiment underlying it all was completely genuine even though my friend would no more have renounced his American citizenship because of Choral Evensong than he would have sliced up his driver’s license. But the point is this: an experience in worship was so transformative that my friend’s only reaction was to imagine chucking what amounted to his official, secular identity at the altar. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but hyperbole that flowed out of a moment of heartfelt transformation.
When you hear the words of the apostle Paul, I wonder if you’re quick to accuse him of hyperbole in his speech. Admittedly, before I began to have a deeper appreciation for Paul’s integrity and wisdom, I often found his letters to be either obtusely theological or annoyingly hyperbolic. He uses imagery of a human body to describe the Church. He urges people to give up their own desires for the sake of the larger community. He even tells some people that it would be better if they didn’t marry so that they can control their unruly passions.
Paul always favors the community over the individual. He has one of his companions circumcised so that his message might be more readily received by Jews. Paul even suggests that the irreconcilable differences among groups of people are indeed reconcilable in Christ. In short, Paul seems ridiculously pollyannish, needlessly demanding, and at times, very much lost in his own head.
Not to mention, Paul has the obvious zeal of a convert, which he, of course, was. He does not mince words. He does not proffer a mealy-mouthed version of the Gospel. In fact, he suggests that the Gospel is both the best news imaginable and the most challenging thing to live out. Is it any wonder that many people love to dislike Paul?
Look, for instance, at his exhortatory words to the Romans in chapter 12. Present your bodies as a living sacrifice. Do not be conformed to this world. Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought. We are, individually, members one of another. This not only sounds preachy, but it sounds unrealistic if not incomprehensible, to some extent. I mean, come on, Paul, what else do you want us to do? Throw our passports at the altar?
Well, actually, I think he might. As I reflected on Paul’s words to the Romans, I couldn’t help but think of my friend’s humorous response to a glorious evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Yes, I think Paul might be asking us to throw our passports at the altar, and in this case, it’s no hyperbole. It is for Paul the Christian Gospel.
We can’t fully understand Paul’s argument here unless we consider the first eleven chapters of the Letter to the Romans. As Paul begins chapter twelve, he recommends a response among the Romans that hinges on his entire argument up to this point. To put it succinctly, in God’s mysterious providence, goodness, boundless mercy, and compassion, God has enabled the Gospel to be available to all, both Jews and Gentiles. God has given us the gift of the Holy Spirit to unite us in the prayer of the triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Therefore, Paul says, you are to live accordingly. Paul’s exhortations to offer ourselves to God, to be transformed by the renewal of our minds, to be humble, to live together amid our differences as one body, and to use our God-given gifts are all responses to what God has already done for us. They are responses to grace, a grace that is so hyperbolic that our responding actions seem ludicrous. Chapter twelve is the hinge-point where we shift from theological argument to hyperbolic action. It’s the moment where we throw our passports at the altar in response to God’s wondrous love.
But let’s be clear. Paul is not simply asking for our spiritual worship to be confined to dropping into church every week or for the renewal of our mind to be limited to reading an occasional religious book. He’s not simply asking for us to live in harmony with those who are similar to us or whom it’s easy for us to like. He’s not recommending that we use our giftedness in competition to be the best athlete or math student or musician. Paul says that the Gospel demands much more of us, something that sounds like pure hyperbole.
Our spiritual worship is giving everything we are and have to God. Everything. Our bodies, our minds, our hearts, and our possessions. And it’s letting go of our self-centeredness, our envy, and our resentment. Everything. We give it all up to God. The renewal of our minds means that we live and think according to the mind of Christ, not how we are often told to think in this world. The Gospel expects nothing less than living with a spirit of compassion and mercy toward our most hated enemies, including those who have wronged us. Using our gifts means undergoing the effort to thoughtfully discern the true gifts God has given each of us, all of which are different, and all of which are needed for the flourishing of God’s kingdom on earth.
Paul is asking us to throw our passports at the altar. This is no hyperbole. It’s not even really a metaphor. It’s the only proper response to an honest acknowledgment and appreciation of all God has done for us. When we recognize how generous God has been with us, we will find ourselves surprising ourselves by our own generosity.
When we throw our passports at the altar, we’re owning the fact that in baptism, a person is given a new citizenship, a citizenship in heaven. And that citizenship in heaven does not mean that we deny this world or fight it or reject it. It means that at some point our marker of identity in the country God has prepared for us defines us more than our identity in our nations of origin or biological families. Our God-given citizenship defines who we really are. That identity is what transforms our minds and hearts.
And when our minds and hearts are thus transformed, we will find ourselves truly free, because our earthly citizenship ultimately diminishes our capacity to live as fully as God desires for us, even though we are called to live in this world. Our vulnerability to the powers and principalities of this world means that we are always captive to fear, anxiety, wealth, status, power, and approval. When the powers and principalities have become our idols, we throw our money at the things that elevate us in the eyes of others, or the things that only make us individually happy. And we are usually quite willing to throw so much of ourselves at those things, while God and his Church remain an afterthought. Which is why it’s no surprise that what the Gospel demands sounds like a hyperbole. It sounds unattainable because we have functioned and existed for so long in a foreign country that will never stop demanding more of us.
But God is different. God doesn’t demand more and more from us. God doesn’t really demand anything at all. God still loves us and gives to us and forgives us even when we cling fearfully to our pocketbooks and let everything but God suck up the hours of our day. God is simply always there ready for us to live out of response to the stupendous awareness that God gives infinitely of himself even when we turn to other gods.
But, I urge you, now—not later—is the hinge-point of our lives, where Paul’s words no longer sound like hyperbole. Now—not another time—is the moment for our minds and hearts to be renewed and transformed. This transformation should not elicit perfunctory obligation or a begrudging sense of duty. It should draw out of us a loving, heartfelt, genuine, willing response to the incredible generosity and love of God, which no longer seems like hyperbole. It is simply the right and only proper thing to do. In awe and amazement, we stand up, throw our passports at the altar, and we are truly free.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
August 27, 2023