Stewardship in an Unstable Financial Climate: Moving from Fear to Hope
by the Rt. Rev. James L. Jelinek, VIII Bishop of Minnesota
October 14, 2008
It is generally a no-no to begin a sermon with anger. It is worse to couple that with political views and (self-) righteousness. The congregation either dismisses you for intemperate thinking, or one riles up the anger of others who are carrying around their own unresolved angry feelings, helping them to focus more on what they are against in the name of God than what they stand for.
Nevertheless, a couple of Sundays ago, the Rev. Barbara Mraz, Deacon at St. John the Evangelist, took the risk of revealing her anger at the political situation, the economic situation and perhaps a few other situations that make her blood boil. She was honest enough to confess her sense of helplessness in a society where those who are supposed to be minding the store have been letting, in her view, greed run rampant. Yet just as she names her fears, she concludes her opening section with a stunning statement:
“Some days, things can seem pretty bleak.
What better time to build a clinic in Kaoyoro, Uganda?”
Barbara went on to make a case for the clinic, which was not difficult, for the need is greater than most of us can imagine. She also described how she and the outreach folks at St. John’s came to their decision both to do something and what to undertake. As she describes it, the Spirit just simply struck them, and they all felt a powerful need to take this to the people of the congregation.
Years ago, one of my favorite mentors, the rector I served under in a large parish in Memphis, told the story in a sermon that was set in the early 1900s (if memory serves) in New York City. On a Friday, a church in Manhattan had burned down. Saturday morning, one of the most senior clergy in that diocese called the young rector and said, “You are one of the most fortunate young clergy in the church.” The young priest said, “Perhaps you did not hear that our church burned down yesterday.” “Oh, I heard,” he replied, “and I want to give you a piece of advice. Tomorrow, wherever you hold your services, I urge you to take a collection for world mission. If you do, I promise you that your congregation will contribute enough money later to build one of the most beautiful churches in the city.” The young priest followed this advice, and they did indeed take a collection for world mission in the midst of their great need and in the face of their fears. The church that attests to the wisdom of this daring act of generosity is St. Thomas, Fifth Avenue, widely acclaimed as one of New York’s finest.
A few years after I heard this story, I was serving as the rector of a very poor inner-city congregation, St. Michael and All Angels, in Cincinnati. It was a difficult time for us as a congregation and for me and my family. One month, on about the 24th, I noticed that we had no more money in the bank and enough cash to buy milk for the rest of the month and nothing more. I was sure we could not make it. On the 27th or 28th, a woman came to my door saying that she and her children had nothing to eat, and asking if I could help her out with some money for groceries. I had no discretionary fund, and no money, yet I was so touched by her story, and somehow I knew that she was telling the truth. So I went upstairs to our flat and looked in the cupboards and found enough canned goods and dry food to fill two shopping bags. I thought we were poor. Her story revealed to me what real economic poverty was and how much we had—more than I knew. I can only hope that she got as much out of my giving as I got out of the giving. Her need opened my eyes and my heart beyond what I believed was affordable, beyond what I believed was possible.
As I write, we are living in a time of financial downturn to a degree that many of us and our people have never experienced before. Fear is rampant, and in the midst of fear, people withdraw into themselves. In last Sunday’s lesson from the book of Exodus, we saw how our spiritual ancestors were so needful of something that would still their fears, that would give them confidence. Aaron, lacking the faith of his brother Moses about what it means to be a community, a communion, gave in to their wants, their simplistic solution to have something to believe in that gave hope, a symbol of possible fertility, of more, of wealth. They didn’t just buy into it; they loved it. Moses, returning from his visit with God, was so angry at seeing their devotion to an idol, that he smashed that golden calf to dust, similar to the dust of the stock market we choked over this past week. I venture the opinion that it was the same panic some thousands of years ago that drove investors to sell off their investments last week.
What can we say about this? Do we take this level of fear as a phenomenon that we must accommodate? Or do we try to inject some perspective? Our commonwealth is hope, a hope that we gain through personal and shared prayer. Our heritage, particularly the Gospel, is filled with countless stories of hope arising in the midst terrible fear and even panic. Our call, in the midst of fear, is to remember these stories, to be upheld and transformed by them, to invoke the calming of the Spirit, and to practice our faith, that we and our people may be moved from fear to trust. That’s what Barbara did in her sermon. That’s what the young rector of St. Thomas did in calling his parishioners to give an offering for others at a time when their own need was so great. That’s what happened to me when I looked into my own cupboard at a time when my family’s need seemed so overwhelming.
I encourage you in this stewardship season to be bold, to remind yourselves and your people of the heritage of hope that is ours in Jesus Christ. Ask your people to stretch in their generosity. Please do this not for the sake of your budget (or your diocesan apportionment), but for the sake of your people’s need to grow in faith, which can only happen when we ask them to take risks.
What better time to build a clinic in Kaoyoro, Uganda?
