Epiphany II, Year B
The Rev. Rob Fisher
St. Dunstan’s, Carmel Valley

Texts: 1 Samuel 3:1-20; Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17; 1 Corinthians 6:12-20; John 1:43-51

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

Brian McLaren just came out with a new book about Christianity.  He is one of our best thinkers in sorting out what it means to be Christian in the twenty-first century, and he writes about a book a year.  He continues to come up with catchy titles that are hard to ignore.

This book is called Naked Spirituality.

He starts out with a story of a man who stripped off all of his clothes before his bishop, before his parents, and before the whole town, and declared his faith before them all.  You might be surprised to learn that this man is one of the most famous, and most beloved saints of all time—and this is a true story about him.  His name was Giovanni Francesco di Bernardone.  We know him better by the name “St. Francis.”

And this was not the only time he got naked in public while being a saint, but you’ll have to read McLaren’s book to learn more about that.

The point of talking about nakedness, or of a “naked spirituality,” is not about being rude or inappropriate.  Rather, it is about shedding away anything that covers our authentic selves—anything that hides who we really are underneath all of the layers that cover us.

McLaren says:

“Naked we came from the womb…and naked we shall depart this life, but in between, we clothe ourselves in a thousand fascinating ways.”

If somebody saw you underneath all of your layers, what would they see?

What does God see.

In the opening collect we prayer nearly every Sunday are the familiar words:

Almighty God,
to You all hearts are open,
ll desires known,
and from You no secrets are hid.

The psalm today goes even farther.

LORD, you have searched me out and known me
Indeed, there is not a word on my lips,
but you, O LORD, know it altogether.
For you yourself created my inmost parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
My body was not hidden from you,
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.

***

These readings for today point to the body.

We don’t expect to hear about nakedness in church.  Nor do we expect to hear about the body.

But our bodies are the primary places where are lives are lived.

The technology that allows us to be in multiple places at once has stolen some of our bodily awareness.

How interesting that at this time when we focus more on the incarnation of Christ in a real human body, our distracted presence threatens our own sense of being incarnate in one physical place at one time.

Many live more and more in a liminal space, neither here nor there.  When we are talking on the phone while walking or driving or doing anything else..

If you don’t believe me, just drive down Ocean Avenue in Carmel.  Watch the people stagger in front of your car, talking away on the phone, standing right in the middle of the street and completely oblivious to the fact that you are right there waiting for them.  Your wheels are pointed at them, but you are invisible to them.

They are neither here nor there.  They are dwelling nowhere.  They are in a liminal space.

This plugged-in life steals our sense of the earthiness of our real, physical selves.  We are not just our mental lives, but we are also our physical lives.

Even Paul, who was very skeptical of the body, at least picks up on the important fact that our bodies are where God has placed his spirit.

Our very bodies are called temples by Paul—and a temple is a place where God’s spirit is pleased to dwell.

If you want to meet God, you have to go to the temple.  And Paul tells us that we, our selves, souls and even bodies, are the temple itself.  We meet God there, and in the other children of God around us.

Our bodies are not bad, but are indeed where holiness might be found, planted within us, under all those layers.

(It’s Epiphany, by the way, which is the season for discovery!)

***

If God dwells in people and not buildings, what does that say?

You can burn down these church walls, and God will not be harmed.

But if one of God’s children get’s a scratch—that is what harms God.

There is no doubt that God grieved mightily two years ago this past week when a devastating earthquake struck the capital of Haiti.

The 35 seconds of shaking destroyed 300,000 homes, and ultimately took an estimated 300,000 lives.

In October of 2010, I went to see our sister church, St. Andre’s, which is located in Hinche, a town of about 50,000.  It’s about 80 miles away from Port-au-Prince, and there were no casualties there.  The town was affected, of course, by the loss of many loved ones, and in the days after the quake it had to open itself up to thousands of refugees, including many children to whom we opened our school.

The last day before we left the country we drove back to Port-au-Prince.

It was interesting riding around the city because at times you could be fooled into thinking that nothing had happened.  There were areas where no earthquake damage was visible.  But then you turn the corner, and you see an entire hillside of homes and buildings destroyed.

There were parts of the city that shook worse than others.

It’s apt, I suppose, in that when you have suffered a really traumatic experience, there are moments after it when you feel normal again.  It lasts a moment, and just when you start to think that you are moving forward, you get pulled back into your grief just like turning a corner and seeing the collapsed houses everywhere.

Some wonder why we spend our time with our ministry to Haiti—27 years of it.  I wondered too, to be honest, before I came to St. Dunstan’s.

I had already heard that our little church was somewhat famous for its ministry in Haiti.  And I asked, “Why Haiti?”  The little I knew about Haiti was all the bad part.  The struggle and frustration.  The endless tragedies.  But I had not known Haitian people yet, and now that I have come to spend time with them, I get it.

It’s not about words or reason—it is about the spirit that shines through people, through God’s children wherever they may be.

Haiti is not much to look at in terms of pretty buildings.

But buildings are just covering.  It is what is at the heart of the people that is more beautiful than anything—and that is what God sees when he looks at Haiti.

The Franciscan friar Richard Rohr has written:

“The goal of all spirituality is to lead the “naked person” to stand trustfully before the naked God.  The important thing is that . . . we come without title, merit, shame, or even demerit.  All we can offer to God is who we really are.”

—Amen.