- July 12, 2026 Sermon
The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 10A
Over at the rectory, each spring I set out my flowerpots and go to the store and get fresh soil and seeds. For one, seeds are cheaper, and given how much the squirrels at the rectory love to torment me by bringing compost materials and leaving them in my yard AFTER they dig through my flowerpots for funsies, at least I won’t be out as much money that I would be if I got more fully grown plants.
But secondly, I love the look of those seeds. I get marigolds, nasturtiums, and California poppies because they can put up with the heat on my front porch, and the different textures and shapes are just so interesting to look at. This year I got an Idaho native plant assortment of seeds, too. I have no idea what they are, but the colors and shapes and sizes worked for me. I got a bunch, I tossed them into the pots with a little bit of care, put some more soil on top, and then try to remember to water them as best as I can. And curse the squirrels for digging in every single one of my flowerpots and making them all look lopsided and weird once the seeds that were left had a chance to grow.
Because there was not much I could do once the seeds were planted. I couldn’t turn over the soil and put more seeds down to replace what the squirrels had destroyed – that would run the risk of destroying the seeds that had survived. I didn’t want to overcrowd the flowerpots, either. All I could do was shake my fist at the squirrels as they mocked me from the tree as I stared at the mess they made.
And then, all I could do was wait and watch. Wait and watch for traces of sprouts – and hoping that it was what I had sown there that was sprouting instead of a weed or a tree. Some I can tell because I’ve grown them a few times, but others, it’s just pure hope. Wait, and watch, and water. But not too much. But a little more because of the heat and direct sun. But not too much.
There is so much outside of my control each spring and summer as I start my little flower garden on my porch. I choose, and then I wait on much outside my control. Will we get a storm that floods the flowerpots with rain? Will the squirrels continue their swath of destruction of everything I hold dear? Will I go a few too many days without watering? And, fundamentally, were the seeds viable – or were the seeds not going to grow, no matter what I did?
This Gospel parable in time past felt very clear-cut to me because it came with a little explanation at the end. The seed is this, the different kinds of soil are this, the end. Figure out what kind of soil you are, and try to be good soil and bear an abundant harvest.
I see some new things in the parable now.
I think of how the sower sows these seeds and has so little control over them. The seeds get cast and some find receptive soil, some find less-than-good soil. The sower can irrigate, but has to protect the seeds from flooding. But a rainstorm can come and flood it anyway. A persistent bird (or squirrel!) can interfere with the seeds. Weeds can blow in with a windstorm. A rival could even intentionally sow weeds into this field (but that’s a different parable).
If the sower is a preacher or teacher, then there is so much outside that preacher’s control. Once the words have been spoken, it’s up to the ears and hearts they land in to do the next thing. I get up here week after week after reading, studying, discerning, and I’m scattering seeds in the sermon. I’m scattering seeds in little office conversations or committee meetings, or in the brief little time I get to chat after worship, or at coffee hour. The hope is that the seeds land in good soil – that it’s been prepared through prayer and reflection.
But sometimes that’s not the case.
Sometimes, even though I try to choose my words very carefully, what gets heard is not what I meant. That might be because I made the wrong word choice. That might be because I said something that triggered a memory or an emotion buried deep in pain. That might be because, in our day and age, even the most thoughtful word can have social or political connotations that mean we no longer want to listen to what is said.
As a pastor and priest, I want to match the seed to the soil with surgical precision and insight; while some can preach or speak off the cuff even the hardest thing with incredible confidence, that’s hard for me. I always want to know what the soil is like – is it in a good place right now, or is there a lot of pain or sorrow going on? Is the soil receptive, or is the soil too full of other things? Will this seed and soil nourish one another, or am I only making it all worse?
A good part of that comes from me – yes, I want to be precise and do good and not do harm, but there’s some fear there, isn’t there? Sometimes I fear that I’ll make it worse, I’ll be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back, that the soil itself will be mad at me or the seed, and so I hold that seed close to the vest. I hesitate. And so, instead of that confident trust that good seed will land in the soil and something will grow, I find myself so often waiting without sowing the seed, searching for the exact right spot of soil for this particular seed while I also second-guess myself endlessly.
There’s some pastoral vulnerability for you.
Yet how often do we find ourselves holding back on the seeds we are called to sow? Sure, we should all be doing reflection on how to be receptive soil, to be able to discern the truth and let it grow… but what are you called to sow? Is it easy, or is it hard? Do you readily sow the seeds God gives you, or do you find yourself frozen in place like me? Do you trust in the seeds God’s put into your hands, or do you find yourself wondering if they’re good enough to sow, if they’re important enough to sow?
What is it that holds you back from sowing the seeds that God has given you? In the parable, the sower is aware that there is a variety of soil out in this field and is aware of all that challenges that await. And the sower sows anyway.
It’s almost like the sower trusts the soil. The sower trusts that the soil will grow this seed. Some of the soil will be exceptionally good. Some of it might not be great but it’ll grow something. Maybe this isn’t the year for that particular seed, but each seed sown sets the stage for the future, when the soil is healthier and able to grow more.
It’s a collaboration between the soil and the sower. Each are part of this dynamic process, even in the midst of so much neither can control. Neither of them can control the rains or heat, but the soil is ready to support and grow good things, and the seed is ready to germinate and be part of the life cycle of creation. It’s a creative act, sowing the seed; it’s a creative act, being the soil in which the seed can grow, even if it’s an imperfect or unfinished harvest.
It is worth it to sow the seed of God’s goodness and love and wisdom and insight as best as we can, even if we are unsure of the outcome. It may set the stage for the future – who knows! It is worth it to be part of the creative process of sowing and growing, trusting and waiting for something new to be born. It should be exciting, healing – if we are bold enough to sow the seed. And bold enough to sow the seed anyway, knowing that there is a cadre of obnoxious, bored squirrels ready to mess with the seeds and soil as soon as we’re done.
- July 5, 2026 Sermon
The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 9A
“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Jesus offers us his yoke and promises that his yoke is easy and the burden is light. For us who know the trajectory of Jesus’ earthly life, this feels not quite accurate. What about the cross that lies ahead? Being misunderstood and abandoned by his disciples? The heartache of seeing the world around him continue to not understand the way of the Gospel? How would this be easy, and how would this burden be light?
I struggle with what Jesus says. It feels nice, it feels comfortable – and yet I also know the challenges of actually following Jesus. Jesus says we are called to love God with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength. And yet we’re easily distracted and focus our hearts, minds, souls, and strength on lesser things. We pray, we feel good, we feel centered, and then BAM our minds are chewing over the same worries and fears; our hearts start desiring things instead of desiring God, our souls feel like they untether from God and float away, and we feel our strength fading away in the face of all the suffering and confusion of the world. So much for loving God with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength.
And then Jesus adds that we’re supposed to love our neighbor as ourselves? To love THAT neighbor? To love that neighbor the same way I love myself? And what if I don’t even really love myself, if I’m my own enemy? How am I supposed to love my neighbor as myself in this day and age?
What makes this easy? What makes this burden light at all?
So some Christians have made it easy and light – by removing the demands of love from the yoke of Christ. The love of God becomes reduced to an easy confidence that “I’m right with God, and I know what God wants, and thus my will is God’s will.” The love of neighbor becomes reduced to a vague and light “If I think they deserve it, I’ll give charity and I’ll feel good… and if they don’t deserve it, I’ll tell them their failures, out of an abundance of Christian love.” Easy and light.
But I’m stuck in the world of St Paul – I feel at war within myself, wanting to do the right thing, not knowing what the right thing is, not knowing if there is even a one, single right thing to do. Over the years as I have explored more and more of my own personality, my habits, and my thoughts, I see layers of thoughts and desires that are deeply engrained that pull me away from the path of following Jesus. And these thoughts and desires are not things I necessarily chose – I am a product of my environment, over the years from even before I was born up until now. I am a product of thousands of years of human evolution, human culture, traumas, pains, injustices, with sparks of hopes and dreams.
None of us arrive in the world a blank slate – the words that are written on us were written with hands not our own, and we struggle to read the text, let alone to change the words to reflect the One in whose image we are made. We are born into families and cultures and histories and ways of thinking and ways of behaving that get presented to us as normal, just the way things are. It is hard to turn around and question all of that, it seems.
So what is easy, what is light about all this? To be made, to be re-made, to be continually remade and remolded to embody the love of God? How is this easy and light?
What is easy about this? It’s easy because it means turning and returning to Jesus, looking into his eyes as they look at us. He is gentle and humble of heart, and in his eyes we see what we are meant to become. We are seen by eyes of love – all that is within me that is not love is revealed the more that I gaze into the eyes of love. Easy to do – it is not some obscure, hidden knowledge or harsh ascetic practice. All of us can do it, at any age, at any time.
The wisdom of God is revealed to children – children know the value of sharing and compassion, the value of honesty and fairness. As we grow we make things more complicated, or at least we claim it’s more complicated. We throw up our hands and say, “it’s complicated, it’s too complicated. It cannot change. I cannot change.” But at any moment we have the opportunity to turn to Jesus and be changed. That part is easy enough, if we would just turn to Jesus.
And what is light about this? We experience the heaviness of life. Our bodies and minds are weighed down with all the past and all the pain of the present. The lightness does not remove all of the pain and the past – we do not become ignorant of the world or ourselves. No, it’s more akin to a hot air balloon – the lightness of Christ lifts us up as we are, we see the world and its interconnectedness, and we see the world from above the small little hole in the ground that we may have been used to. The world is heavy, and the world seems a hard, stone-hearted mess. But the yoke of Jesus continually sets us free, to give us rest, to renew and restore us. It is easy, if we let it. It is light, if we accept it. Amen.
- June 28, 2026 Sermon
The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 8A
Oh look, a new set of banners! So we all know what that means… learning about the saints!
Sergius and Bacchus: These saints were 4th Century Syrian military officers of the Roman Empire who were outed as Christians, paraded around in women’s clothing, and eventually tortured and killed. They were inseparable – official church biographies go with “They were the bestest of friends”, but for some reason I wonder if that’s like when historians say, “They were lifelong roommates” to hide the reality of same-sex couples. The fact that Sergius and Bacchus were paraded around in women’s clothing to humiliate them does suggest something more than simply “These guys are Christians and won’t sacrifice to the Roman gods” was at play.
Hildegard of Bingen: The most brilliant woman of the European Middle Ages, hands down. A keen observer of the natural world, a poet and playwright, and a mystic … as well as a woman who could speak truth to power. She was a Benedictine abbess and cultivated learning in her monastery. She had mystical visions throughout her life, and at God’s command she wrote them down. Bernard of Clairvaux shared her works with the pope, leading to Hildegard being highly sought-after for counsel. She was also a musician, and wrote chants and hymns for her community. If you ever really want to get into chant, look her up!
Richard Hooker: If Thomas Cranmer was the architect of our Prayer Book tradition, then Richard Hooker is the architect of our theological tradition. Richard Hooker was a priest during the time of Elizabeth the First, and the Church of England at the time was still reeling from attacks by more radical Protestants who wanted to abolish anything even remotely Roman Catholic. Hooker was a learned man and with a charitable yet firm heart pointed out that following Christ is more than just getting your interpretation of the Bible “correct” – it was a way of life. Just because something looked Roman Catholic didn’t mean it was wrong – which was something that could get you burned at the stake in those days. His “Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity” defended our theology and worship as a distinctive contribution to the whole Church. His collect is one of my favorite saints’ collects: “O God of truth and peace, you raised up your servant Richard Hooker in a day of bitter controversy to defend with sound reasoning and great charity the catholic and reformed religion: Grant that we may maintain that middle way, not as a compromise for the sake of peace, but as a comprehension for the sake of truth.”
Juana Ines de la Cruz: A Mexican nun in the 1600s who might never be made a saint by the Vatican, but we will recognize her saintliness. She was born to a wealthy family in colonial Mexico. A brilliant child who read voraciously even when she was forbidden to, because noblewomen were expected to be good wives and nothing more. She wrote poetry, treatises on theology, criticized government and church for their sexism and hierarchicalism, and was, at one point, trying to get admitted to university by disguising herself as a man. She ended up joining a monastic order because that was the way to escape marriage – just like how women in the Roman Empire dedicated themselves as virgins to avoid marriage in that patriarchal society, too. And in the safety of the monastery she could read and read, until she was forced to sell them because the church hierarchy said that women should only be devoted to “good works” and not learning.
Kamehameha and Emma: King and Queen of Hawai’i. These beloved Hawai’ian saints were monarchs in a time of growing American expansion in the Pacific. When smallpox ravaged the islands, the king and queen went from place to place, notebook in hand, to figure out what the people needed. A hospital in Hawai’i, Queen’s Hospital, is named after Emma. Kamehameha and Emma brought an English bishop and clergy to start the Anglican Church of Hawai’i, which is now a part of the Episcopal Church as the Episcopal Diocese of Hawai’i. After the death of their son, Kamehameha was devastated by grief and died a year later, and Emma declined to rule so she could spend her days in prayer and service to her people.
Gregory the Great: Yes, yes, I’ll get the awkward right out of the way. He was the one who conflated Biblical accounts of the women who anointed Jesus’ feet and said Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. This is why we read the Bible very, very carefully, and that tradition can help our reading, but we should always be careful readers. I know for some his grave error is inexcusable, and I get it. I do think that countless people throughout the years who thought they were too sinful to pray thought that they could look to Mary Magdalene and find a friend – and I’d say that Mary Magdalene’s magnanimous heart would rather embrace them. But back to Gregory – he was made pope when he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be a hermit, maybe have a small monastic community around him. But he had gifts that made the people of Rome basically drag him there and make him pope because everything was falling apart. And it is Gregory the Great who sent missionaries to England with the explicit counsel that if they found something good among the pagans in England, they were supposed to praise what is good and bring it to Christ, not tear everything down. A bit of our Episcopalian temperament comes from Gregory.
John of Damascus: A priest born in the 600s after the Islamic conquest of Syria. He was a brilliant student, studying Arabic and Greek texts. He was a scholar, writing treatises on theology and writing defenses of icons in a time when the Byzantine Empire was destroying icons. He stands as a reminder of the deep Christian roots in the Middle East – our pop culture has erased the lives and witness of countless Egyptian, Syrian, Palestinian, and Lebanese Christians. But John was also a hymnwriter, and his Easter hymns show up in our hymnal to this day.
Clare of Assisi: She never gets enough credit for being a monastic in her own right. She so often gets overshadowed by St Francis – but her dedication to Christ and her care and compassion for her small community of “Poor Ladies of San Damiano” which later came to be called “The Poor Clares” embodies the simplicity of a radical call to follow Jesus Christ. She was the first woman to write a religious rule for communities, and she insisted that poverty be a core value of her community. She fought with the church hierarchy to maintain the uniqueness of her community. And when later generations of Franciscans were made part of the Inquisition, guess which Franciscans wasn’t part of that? That’s right – the Poor Clares.
Martin de Porres: A Peruvian brother of the Dominican order born in the late 1500s. The racism of the Spanish government in Peru meant that a mixed race person like Martin was not allowed to join any of the religious orders. He was allowed to be a houseservant, though, which he did became, until the prior of the house finally ignored the racist law. That, of course, did not stop the racism that impacted Martin, even in the religious community. But he persevered. He cared for the household of the monastery, and he was renowned for caring for the sick in the monastery and outside the monastery, even when he was ordered to stop. He proves that there is nothing too small that cannot be done prayerfully and lovingly.
Frances Xavier Cabrini: An Italian nun from the late 1800s who wanted to be a missionary sent to Asia like Francis Xavier, one of her heroes, but who was sent to work among the poor in New York City instead. She was sent to care for the Italian Catholics of New York who were being neglected by the Irish Catholics. You see, back in those days, the construct of who counted as “white” was different than accounted today. The white Anglo-Saxon Protestants of England and Germany would see themselves as white, but they wouldn’t count the Irish. Well, because few things scratch that itch to be better than someone else than to decide that some other group is worse than you, the Irish Catholics looked down on the Italian Catholics as being lesser. And so the Irish Roman Catholic hierarchy was hardly interested in caring for the Italian immigrants. Mother Cabrini then founded orphanages and hospitals, often in spite of people not wanting “those kind of people” in their backyard. But she kept going, and generations of people have benefited from the work of her and her sisters. So there we have it, our latest set of saints! You’ll notice the breadth of their witness – some monks, some clergy, some even royalty. Syria, England, Germany, Italy, Mexico, the Kingdom of Hawai’i, Peru. People of great love – fallible and human, but the saintly love of God showing through their words and deeds.
- June 21, 2026 Sermon
The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 7A
It’s been a long-running joke of who’s in charge of the church. Bishops think they are, priests think they are, vestries think they are, but truly, it’s the altar guild. It’s the people who get stuff done and without whom the church comes to a grinding halt. (If you want to know the real power behind the scenes, it’s Linda Stark.) But in other places of the Anglican Communion, the people who are the real movers, shakers, and leaders of the church are the people of the Mothers’ Union. They are the ones who get stuff done, who know what’s really going on. (Yes, it is a smidge funny that I’m talking about the Mothers’ Union on Fathers’ Day, but I know you’ll roll with it)
The Mothers’ Union was started in Victorian England and spread through the British Empire. The concept was that the mothers (and grandmothers, and aunties) of parishes should support one another and care for families. The rigid stratification of Victorian England’s social hierarchy meant that the servants and the workers were at the bottom, separated from the wealthy and the aristocracy except insofar as the wealthy could offer pity-filled charity. The concept of the Mothers’ Union was to bring the women of the parish together to support one another, to care for children, and, eventually, to advocate for the needs of children and families, too.
It feels like a natural fit. Those who care for children should care for the children of others, too. Children deserve the resources and support they need to grow up healthy! If we say that children are our future, then every child is part of our universal future.
And, yet, this is also not a universal perspective.
We see this in our Bible reading from Genesis today. Sarah is worried that her son Isaac will be competing for an inheritance with his half-brother Ishmael. Sarah wants to make sure that her son has the best; the fate or even the survival of (to use Sarah’s phrase) the “son of the slave woman” is of little concern to Sarah. Cast out Hagar, cast out Ishmael. The free mother against the enslaved mother. That child is perceived as a threat to the well-being of my child, and so I will use all my power to eliminate the threat. Instead of viewing all children as sacred gifts of God with a whole future ahead, some children are seen as enemies in miniature.
Which children matter, and which children don’t matter?
In the missile strikes on Iran this spring, girls were killed when their school was bombed. Do those children still matter, or have we moved on to another talking point? The Israeli national security minister said this weekend that for every Israeli mother’s tears, that a thousand Lebanese mothers should be weeping – and given that children get treated as “future combatants” I don’t think this rhetoric is hollow hyperbole.
But we see this same logic play at home.
How do we as a culture treat children in poor families? Do we give them safe places to play and grow, nutritious food? Or do we means-test them to make sure that no dollar goes to help them that could be directed toward yet another corporate subsidy? What about the abominable concept of school lunch debt? Or how public schools for children are perpetually underfunded and expected to make more and more miracles happen, when charter schools can choose which kids to accept and which kids to reject, and private schools can get vouchers paid by public funds?
What about how Black children and Latino children have to learn at an early age that white people will perceive them differently – that the young white teen can be seen as being a mischievous kid, but the Black teen will be seen as a threat? Remember Black teen Trayvon Martin in 2012 was heading home from a convenience store buying snacks and was killed by a vigilante who’d decided the teenager was a threat, and white teen Kyle Rittenhouse could take an assault rifle to a protest in another state and shoot people and be acquitted. How we failed Trayvon in allowing a culture that sees Black kids any differently from their peers, and how we failed Kyle in letting him grow up equating strength with power, violence, and privilege.
Or what about LGBT children – who often grow up with messages that they are not loved as they are, or that their safety is predicated on being in the closet? Children are incredibly attune to their environment; they learn the emotional landscape around them and know what is expected and how to stay safe. When I was in kindergarten, I was always jealous of the kindergarten classroom next door because they had a dollhouse that I would have loved to play with – but I also knew even as a kindergartner I wasn’t “supposed” to want to play house, just like how I knew that it wasn’t ok for a red-blooded eastern Idaho boy to have purple as his favorite color – red, green, and blue were the acceptable choices. I had learned these expectations years before I even really understood what “gay” meant. I knew how to hide in the closet long before threats had ever been spoken aloud. My story is hardly unique.
And so we live in a world that wants to idolize childhood for a few, and refuses to see the belovedness of countless children because they are “others” – strangers at best, enemies at worst. Just as every adult is our neighbor, so every child is our child – worthy of care, worthy of respect, worthy of support and nurture. But that means confronting how our structures and systems and cultures are set up against children. It means that we are confronted with uncomfortable truths – we read in the Bible that Jesus says we have to receive the Kingdom of God as children, that we should care for children, and yet it’s much easier to dismiss children by going through the abstract lens of “policy choices.” It’s not that we’re not feeding children, educating children, protecting children from war, violence and poverty – that’s just the impact of neutral policy choices. It’s nothing personal. It’s just policy.
But Jesus will not be impressed by us shifting blame to politicians and policy decisions.
Jesus challenges us to move past the closed-off image of family – that all I care about is my flesh-and-blood, and who cares about the rest. Jesus wants us to have much bigger hearts than that. If you love your child as a beloved child of God, and if you can see every other child as a beloved child of God, if you can see every child, every little child, every teenager, every adult, every elder as a child of God, as an image of Jesus, then you get the Gospel. They are real children of God, nearby or far away.
Jesus asks us to move past the closed-off family that Sarah wants, that sees Ishmael as a threat. Jesus asks us to see the worth and dignity of every child. Imagine if Sarah had watched Ishmael playing with Isaac and, instead of wanting to get rid of a perceived threat to her child, imagine if Sarah had smiled and seen two children of God playing as children are called to do. Imagine if Sarah, the free woman, had seen herself as an “aunt” to Ishmael, or a co-mother to the enslaved woman, Hagar. Imagine if Sarah had seen herself as a mother in union with other mothers for a better future for all children. Imagine what that would have done for the world. That’s the kind of heart that changes the world for the better. That’s the kind of heart that should be in charge of everything. That is the heart of the parent – who sees all children as worthy of life and love. Amen.
- June 14, 2026 Sermon
The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 6A
St Paul says to us this morning, “And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us.”
This sounds suspiciously like something I read as a kid. As a child, I was one of the millions of people who loved the absolute best comic strip ever written. You might be familiar with the work of Bill Watterson and “Calvin and Hobbes.” In the strip, Calvin’s dad often would tell Calvin prior to some incredibly undesirable task or outing that the unfun activity will produce character. Going camping without screen time and toys? Building character. Doing chores? Character.
What made the comic strip genius was that it reflected nonjudgmentally on both Calvin and his dad. From a kid’s perspective, all of that suffering was ridiculous just to build “character.” And from an adult’s perspective, going through stuff builds endurance and character. The genius wasn’t that Calvin’s dad was right and Calvin would eventually grow into it; Bill Watterson was not into that kind of moralizing nonsense. No, Calvin’s protests were an authentic part of childhood and should be heard from his perspective. The suffering was real to Calvin, and all of us in touch with our inner children would understand that perspective, and understand why Calvin was not convinced by his father’s promises that it would all build character.
At first blush, it feels like St Paul’s perspective on suffering, endurance, character, and hope is like Calvin’s dad’s view on why sometimes we need to endure the mosquitos and boredom of camping when what we’d rather be doing is sitting in front of the TV eating another huge bowl of Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs cereal. “Why go through all this suffering? Because you’ll build character.”
Through Christian history, that perspective has had a significant sway. Suffering was a royal highway to Christian perfection. Suffering meant being like Jesus, and thus enduring more suffering was a way of being even more glorified in Jesus.
It meant that a lot of our readings of the Bible have that interpretation floating in the background, that more suffering equals being more like Jesus. We might see traces of it in Jesus’ admonition to go out to preach the Good News in today’s Gospel reading, but Jesus gives straightforward advice: don’t take a lot, just go. Accept hospitality. If they welcome you, wonderful; if they don’t, wipe off that dirt and walk on. Even if things get really bad, even if there is violence, don’t be afraid. Trust in the Spirit working in you.
If we bring that “suffering builds character” lens, however, we might read it into what Jesus says. Be poor beggars because that proves you’re not in it for the money. If people are mean to you, wipe off your sandals in protest – you’re too good for them. If violence rears its head – you’re a vindicated martyr. Glorify in it.
See how that’s a very different read than Jesus’ counsel. Jesus says go, and don’t overthink it. But a “suffering builds endurance” lens can make it say something different. Suddenly the emphasis on the suffering that *could* happen becomes the centerpiece rather than just a fact in the story.
In the first centuries, people would actively seek martyrdom, and eventually rules had to be put in place that you couldn’t actively pursue being persecuted. Later centuries would find Irish monks standing neck-deep in freezing water and enduring endless fasting in the pursuit of what came to be called “Green Martyrdom”. Then time would lead to wearing barbed wire and hair shirts to increase the suffering endured by monastics. Suffering produces character, but I’m not sure what kind of character gets produced from a single-minded focus on creating suffering for ourselves.
We see that perspective continue to live on in comments about “kids these days have it so easy” or things that say because I suffered, therefore I am morally superior just by the fact of having suffered.
But that perspective has had a challenger in recent years. Now we look at that focus on suffering and recognize it can be, to use the modern overused word, “toxic.” That emphasis on suffering valorizes the suffering that people go through instead of looking at how to alleviate and stop suffering. We recognize that sometimes the emphasis on suffering is a way of resigning ourselves to a status quo that produces suffering. Those who suffer are told to just accept it, figure it out, move past it. “Life isn’t fair” is an easy phrase to toss at those who are suffering.
We also recognize whose suffering gets treated this way. When anesthesia was developed, there were men who thought it would be immoral to give it to a pregnant woman during childbirth because “well, she should suffer in childbirth because that’s what the Bible says happens because of Eve in the Garden of Eden.” That suffering is just acceptable. Or the suffering of Black communities under the injustices of slavery, or of Jim Crow, or of the ongoing political and economic disenfranchisement – grin and bear it, but don’t get angry, prove you’re better than them. Even when mobs of white people will ransack prosperous Black communities, as happened in the Tulsa Race Massacre a hundred years ago, precisely because the white community felt that the Black community was doing better than them.
And so generations have also worked to push back on the valorization of suffering. Sometimes we aren’t meant to endure suffering. We’re supposed to change it – for ourselves and for others. Suffering isn’t something we just smile and say, “Well, this produces character!” No, sometimes we have to push back. We work for justice for all people.
But … we still do live in a world where suffering happens. We live in a world where sickness and cancer happen. We live in a world where we experience setbacks and limitations. We live in a world where death, pain, and fear still plague us. There are forms of suffering that we do have to simply endure. Some suffering is brief, and some is a life-long heartache.
Suffering is a fact in the midst of life.
So what do we do with St Paul’s thoughts about suffering?
If suffering is a part of life, we don’t need to seek it out. We don’t need to make more of it – we only need to face head-on the suffering that we have in our daily lives to have more than enough. We also don’t need to be passive in the face of suffering, just suffering under a heavy load in silence. In fact, we should be active in the face of suffering. Even if all we can do is float along in a turbulent sea of suffering, we can try to be actively hopeful, ask for help, ask for people just to sit with us, ask God to be here in the midst of it. We see our strengths and weaknesses more, and we see how powerful empathy and a listening ear can be. We embrace our limitations, not in giving up, but in that we are called to be our human selves, nothing more. The Spirit is at work in us, and we will see the traces of her work sometimes only in retrospect.
This is not, perhaps, a clear-cut answer. Calvin’s dad is right – the suffering that we endure, for better or worse, is part of our story, and we can choose what we will do with that story. And Calvin is right too – suffering is experienced as suffering, not the means to some abstract character-building.
Thus, we come to be both Calvin and his dad. We are Calvin: “Why do I have to do this? Why is this happening to me? I don’t like it!” And we are Calvin’s dad: “It’s not the end of the world, truly. You’re stronger than you think. This, too, shall pass.” Suffering, endurance, character, and finally hope. Rightly considered, Paul wasn’t too far off the mark. Hope does not disappoint us. Amen.