'We Gotta Do the Do': A Sermon at St. Peter's Episcopal in Chelsea

It's a real honor and pleasure to be able to speak at St. Peter's. I am really grateful to Mothers / Revs. Lisha and Christine for their wonderful invitation to share some thoughts, and I'm really glad to have met and had a wonderful conversation with Aaron recently. I already feel like I know some people here; and being that this is my first time preaching at an Episcopal congregation as a newly confirmed member of the Episcopal Church/Anglican tradition, thank you for making me feel at home.

So today we are beginning a series called Deep Roots / Wild Branches—btw, really good title—where we are exploring our journey within the church and how it has transformed us. What is something that continues to make us say ‘yes’ to faith? What is something about the Episcopal / Anglican tradition that really has helped us remain rooted and grounded? I don't think Rev. Lisha knows this, but in my pastoral roles, I have always been the one to begin any new preaching series, so this feels apropos. And so, as I was meditating on those questions, on the title, and connecting it to this week's texts in the lectionary—especially the gospel passage—I started to realize that one of the things that connects me deeper and deeper to the tradition, to my faith, and what allows me to have deep roots, is a deep inner life. A life that is rooted in contemplative practices that allow me to better connect with myself, with the Divine, and more importantly, with others.

Today’s text deals with one of the most recognizable texts of scripture, one of the most represented in art: the Parable of the Good Samaritan. You may wonder, how does this parable deal with the inner life?

In this parable, we have the plot we all know too well. There is a wounded person on the side of the road. Two people who would have been seen as the more pious people see him from afar and cross the street so as to not be close to him, and/or because they have other, more important things to do. A last character passes him by, someone who is not expected to be pious—and he stops and bandages the wounded man, takes him to an inn, pays for his well-being, and then keeps going. The last man, a Samaritan, is someone who would have lived in the north of first-century Palestine; today, Samaritan descendants still live in the West Bank.

And so there are some particulars to talk about. The two people who pass by this wounded person are labeled: one is a Levite (or a worship leader) and one is a priest. The Samaritan is not designated necessarily as "good"; all we know is that he felt compassion. He could be a bad person for all we know. Jesus used the name Samaritan to describe someone this law-keeper would have found to not have compassion. The wounded man is unidentified. He was traveling to Jericho and was robbed. (Interesting wording on the text here: Jericho geographically is north of Jerusalem, but Jerusalem always indicates the highest place, so textually people always say we go "down" from Jerusalem, even when going up. I do the same thing for Brooklyn, when I leave Brooklyn I say I am going "down" from Brooklyn, even if I am going up… just a funny thing). And so, what is interesting is that the parable shifts from a who—we are not supposed to be concerned so much about who the people are—but really to a which: which person acts more neighborly?

And that is where the idea of parable comes alive. That’s where we start to see what a deep inner life does.

The parable is only shared because someone who was an expert of the law wanted to be slick and wanted to be declared "good." He tried to pull one over on Jesus. He asks him: what must he do to get to heaven? Jesus looked at him, probably gave him a little look, and was like, "You already know what it says." The man answers correctly and then, wanting to still catch Jesus, asks him, "Well, who is my neighbor?" He shares the story. We can say that Jesus is making the clear declaration that anyone is your neighbor. St. Jerome says that the goal of this parable is to show us that all of us are neighbors to all of us. But I want to peel back a little bit to before that declaration, to the statement that the law expert says correctly. When Jesus asks him what are the commandments, he correctly says that the commandment wants us to love God with all your heart, and the commandment to love your neighbor as yourself.

And this is where it gets interesting. These last two words: “As Yourself.” I think that what we're suffering from in our country, in our world even, is a lack of love of self. People cannot love their neighbors because we do not always love ourselves. I mean, how could we? Our society pushes us in the mainstream to not love ourselves. Sometimes it's because we have been raised in environments that teach us not to love ourselves; sometimes we were part of church harm and trauma that taught us to hate ourselves. There were theologies that often said we needed to hate our own bodies—we could be at the same time too fat for some people or too skinny for some people. Our hair could be too much or too little. For those of us who are racialized as of color, many theologies—especially the remnants of American slaveholder Christianity—make sure to remind us that we are worth nothing, or not as much. So we have this deficit of loving ourselves broadly, and it is because of this deficit that we find it hard to then love our neighbors. How can we love them if we don't love ourselves? As the little-known prophets of Long Island, De La Soul, say in "Stakes is High" (my favorite De La Soul song):

"It's about love of cars, love of funds Lovin' to love mad sex, lovin' to love guns Love for opposite, love for fame and wealth Love for the fact of no longer lovin' yourself"

So, how can we even know what love is? How can we love our neighbors if we cannot love ourselves?

The inner life is the way we can begin the process of loving ourselves. bell hooks said it the best:

“The light of love is always in us, no matter how cold the flame. It is always present, waiting for the spark to ignite, waiting for the heart to awaken and call us back to the first memory of being the life force inside a dark place waiting to be born—waiting to see the light.”

This is the offering of the inner life. Howard Thurman consistently reminded his congregation that just action originates from this inner life because, for Thurman, the depths of our inner life are:

"the level in the human spirit in which God moves without disguise."

Thurman's sermon series on the inner life emphasizes that self-love doesn't require external validation. He suggests that by delving deeper within ourselves, we discover the true voice of God calling to us. It is in this inner space that we encounter the spirit communicating with us, as God speaks to us from our very core.

Now, what does this have to do with this parable?

For us to possess genuine compassion and respond in the manner of the Samaritan, we must cultivate a profound inner life from which love springs forth and compassion can emerge. Compassion cannot originate from a place devoid of it. The Samaritan's capacity for compassion stemmed from his ability to see everyone as his neighbor, his inherent love, and his self-assurance, which enabled him to act decisively in that moment.

To truly transform society, we must cultivate practices that connect us to our inner selves. For me, this involved discovering the contemplative life—practices emphasizing conscious contact with God. Whether through listening to music, walking in nature, contemplating art, sitting in silence, or practicing self-compassion, these experiences helped me develop this inner life and recognize my profound connection to everyone.

We don't cultivate strong community roots through superficial gestures alone. Instead, the deeper we delve into ourselves, the more profoundly we can connect with others. In discovering our own inner humanity, we become capable of recognizing and connecting with the inner humanity of others. We move beyond societal labels and stop perceiving people as mere objects. While it's easy for us to label others, true connection with those around us comes from going deeper and deeper within. The more deeply we explore our inner selves, the more effectively we can engage with the world outside.

One contemplative practice I enjoy, and highly recommend, is Ignatian Imaginative Reading—though we don't have time for it today. Sometimes also known as Ignatian contemplation, it is a method of prayer where one uses their imagination to enter into and engage with a passage of scripture, typically from the Gospels. It involves visualizing the scene, engaging the senses, and interacting with the characters, allowing for a deeper, more personal encounter with God.

So, in this passage, we would imagine what the road was like, what the smell of the man was, what the heat felt like, etc. Part of those exercises involves placing ourselves in the text: who do we see ourselves to be? Most of us may be the Samaritan, some would be the wounded person, some may be the Levite or the priest.

But in this particular instance, who do we envision the characters to be? The challenge for me arises when I recognize that the Samaritan, as Jesus would describe them to me, would be a deeply conservative individual—perhaps even wearing a red hat. My challenge is this: Can I truly see everyone as my neighbor? Can I realize that for me the Samaritan would maybe be an ICE agent and still recognize them as my neighbor? Can I realize that the Samaritan would be those perpetrating genocide and war? If we lack a profound inner life, it's easy to dismiss the idea, to say, "No way, an ICE agent could never be the Samaritan." But that is the challenge, and the challenge is for us to try to live what St. Jerome said: “we are neighbors, all people to all people.”

In closing, as I prepared for this, I reflected on the interpretations of some of the reformers regarding this text. They consistently emphasize that the exterior action of loving our neighbors stems from an interior affection. This understanding has anchored my journey within the Episcopal Church, where I discovered a path to harbor and center the contemplative life. It is through the Episcopal Church that I have learned how grounding my life in these practices fosters greater love for myself and others, ultimately connecting me to the divine.

The Episcopal Church empowers me to respond to the call of the prophets of Queens, specifically, Linden Boulevard, A Tribe Called Quest, who proclaim to all of us that "we gotta do the do." What is this "do"? It is to embody greater love, offer wider welcome, and embrace expansive inclusivity. It means challenging empire, advocating for a ceasefire, and demanding an end to supremacist ideologies, both at home and abroad. It compels us to march alongside those who need our solidarity in the fight for Black and trans liberation, all while extending love to our fellow marchers and, indeed, even to those who march against us.

We gotta do the do, church. And to do the do, we must develop practices that develop our inner life. I don't know what these may be for you—maybe some are contemplative, maybe some are not. My hope for all of us, especially as we prepare to receive the Eucharist, is that this parable inspires us to cultivate our inner lives and foster a deep, robust, almost rebellious love of self that allows us, as St. Paul says:

“To attain the full knowledge of God's will, in perfect wisdom and spiritual understanding. To lead a life worthy and pleasing to our God, to multiply good works of every sort and grow in the knowledge of God; and by the might of God's glory be endowed with the strength needed to stand fast and endure joyfully whatever may happen.”

Let us pray.

The Blessing of Grace by The Rev. William Sloane Coffin

May God give you the grace never to sell yourself short;

Grace to risk something big for something good; and

Grace to remember the world is now

too dangerous for anything but the truth and

too small for anything but love.

Amen.