O Lord our shepherd, who calls us each by name and leads us out to find pasture, spread a table before us when we are in the presence of those who trouble us. Anoint our heads with oil—fill our cups to overflowing—so that when we go out, we may persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to you. Amen.
I have to confess, for a long time, I was not particularly fond of the phrasing for this part of the baptismal covenant. ‘Persevere in resisting evil’?—why not, I thought, ‘disrupting evil,’ ‘destroying evil,’ ‘ending evil’ or something a little more active, a little more definitive?
To persevere in merely resisting evil seemed to me to imply that evil is the default state of affairs. Or at least that evil is so powerful, so substantive, that the best that I can do, the best that can be hoped for, is to resist. Resistance felt passive to me. Cheap, even. I would much rather, with my white Protestant background and upbringing, be called upon to do something greater, grander, more earth-shaking and world-saving.
But I’ve been coming to realise, in recent years, that there is a lot of woundedness and unskillful attempts to meet needs bound up in this idea. A major wound of my white Protestant upbringing is this very belief in my individual capacity—and indeed calling—for saving the world.
And so, in these moments of frustration and overwhelm arising from my own personal saviour complex, I recite to myself that collect from the order for Compline that I love so much, that goes, ‘O God, your unfailing providence sustains the world we live in and the life we live. Watch over those, both night and day, who work while others sleep, and grant that we may never forget that our common life depends upon each other’s toil.’
Our common life depends upon each other’s toil. Your unfailing providence sustains the world we live in and the life we live.
I feel differently now than I used to, about my role in joining in the work of our Good Shepherd, the work of pastoral care. And part of why I feel differently is this description in the book whose title in Greek is ‘the praxis of the apostles.’ ‘Praxis,’ derived from a verb whose meaning is, ‘to practice or perform repeatedly or habitually.’ This word is distinct from a different verb, serving a different function, that means ‘to do or complete once.’ Praxis is not ‘one and done,’ in other words.
The title of the book from which we get today’s first reading clues us into the kind of acts—the kind of praxis—to which we are called, in the lineage of the apostles. A praxis of hospitality, of relationship, of building the kind of community that we aim to cultivate here in Grace Church. One that is not defined or limited by walls or a building, but is alive in the relationships and habitual actions of the people who comprise Grace Church. A community rooted in the praxis of the Episcopal Church writ large, whose branches stretch into our own particular communities and whose leaves are for the healing of all. A praxis defined by showing up and setting the table, day in and day out, so that all may be fed and all may be made well.
And if I have learned anything in my admittedly few years as an out queer and trans person, it is that such a praxis of resistance is anything but passive.
As I’ve reflected on our psalm for today, in light of all the horrors perpetuated by our government, historically and today, I have been struck by these lines: ‘you prepare a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me, you have anointed my head with oil, and my cup is running over.’ And I can’t help but call to mind the praxis of my queer and trans elders during the AIDS crisis, going out to the gay bars after yet another funeral, yet another protest.
I can’t help but call to mind Jesus’ first miracle recorded in John’s gospel, at the wedding at Cana, where he, at the urging of his mother, ensures that this party becomes the best party possible. You can be sure that at this party, like at those gay bars in the 80s and 90s—and the gay bars of today—people’s cups were running over. Even under the weight of powers and principalities, under the boot of Empire, the praxis of resistance takes many surprising forms—one of which is a cultivation of joy and abundant life. Jesus says to those who question his performing of miracles on the sabbath in John chapter 5, ‘My Father is still working, and I also am working.’
During my years at seminary, it was a common practice that at the end of a week filled with preparing for or participating in yet another protest or action, emailing and meeting with administrators, with cooking meals for those at the solidarity encampment on Princeton University’s campus, I and my fellow queer and trans seminarians would gather, don our gayest apparel, and have a little party (though I would usually head home early so that I could get up to milk cows the next morning). Each year in the spring, we would culminate our advocacy and education work with what we called ‘Gay Prom,’ held at the Bayard Rustin Center for Social Justice, just down the street from the seminary campus.
I and my queer and trans siblings get dressed up in our gayest apparel, and we set the table for one another so that even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death—even when we are in the presence of those who trouble us, who want nothing less than our disappearance—we remember that we walk with Christ, who came so that we may have life, and have it abundantly.
We get dressed up and we set the table for one another, day in and day out, because we know that there are no shortcuts. No hopping the fence. No One Bad Man who, if we could just defeat him, all the violence of our systems and structures—all the centuries of history that has led to this political moment—would magically go away. Remember Nicodemus, in John chapter 3, being told that the way of Christ is the way of transformation. Remember Jesus’ words throughout John’s gospel that he is the bread of life and the living water, sustenance for the journey ahead.
Remember the liturgy of table and altar, where we are united to Christ in this holy mystery to take on the ministry of proclaiming the good news: that in a world that says, ‘Peace, peace’ when there is no peace, and promises quick fixes and ‘one weird trick’s instead of cultivating steadfast relationships with one another, with our communities, with the soils that tend us—that in such a world there is a table that is wide enough for all, a table where all may be fed abundantly, day in and day out.
Friends, we carry this table and this altar within us. In being united to Christ, the Good Shepherd, we join in his praxis of pastoral care. And yes, it isn’t easy. It wasn’t easy for the early church, either. It is so often grueling and messy and filled with heartbreak. But we do what we can, and we rest when we need to, remembering that it is not our duty to complete the work, even as we are not at liberty to neglect it. We practice setting the table in the repeated, habitual liturgy of the Eucharist so that when we go out to join in the work of the Lord, we are prepared to set the table for one another, even when—especially when—we are in the presence of those who trouble us.
This praxis of resistance, of pastoral care, is a praxis of showing up and using the strategies and resources particular to each of us, trusting that we are not alone and that, crucially, we are not Christ. That God is still working, has been already at work, and will continue to be at work in our midst. Let us pray:
O Lord our shepherd, who calls us each by name and leads us out to find pasture, spread a table before us when we are in the presence of those who trouble us. Anoint our heads with oil—fill our cups to overflowing—so that when we go out, we may persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to you. May it be so. Amen.