Chapel Homily: April 2024

Introduction:
Last week Forrest opened his homily with comments about how he was experiencing the book of James over the course of the semester. I was amused because I had already considered my analogies for James. For Forrest, it was like getting jarred awake out of a slumber, and then with a bright light shined in his face. For me it's been a mix of cod liver oil and my elementary school Principal Mr. Webster.

Janice's dad grew up in a little Norwegian village on the North Sea. For his health, his mom gave him a daily dose of liquid cod liver oil. The stuff is awful. "Well, this is what we do in the Rasmussen Family." So, little Janice was forced to take a spoonful of cod liver oil every day growing up. It made her gag. But, it was good for her. James is the opposite of Mary Poppins. With James, you don't get a spoonful of sugar to help make the spiritual medicine go down.

Mr. Webster, Mission Park Elementary School, an Elvis Presley wannabe—purple suit, an aqua blue suit, black heeled shoes, thick, black mutton chop sideburns. And he carried a paddle with liberty back in the day when school principals whacked the disobedient. He used that paddle on little behinds. James just feels like a dose of corporal punishment from Mr. Webster.

And so, every Tuesday these past three months in chapel, I've tucked my feet back under my chair because I knew my toes were going to get stepped on. Go ahead and do that now. Feel that stretch in your quads. Because of chapel toe-tucking, my quads haven't been this flexible since I was 20 years old.

Well, here we go again. But fear not, these reminders are good for us. Think about James as cod liver oil for the redeemed in Christ.

James calls our attention to a lot of things—selfishness and pride, the things we do and say, and then, out of nowhere, he drops this jarring line in 4:17—"If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn't do it, it is a sin for them."

We know what we should do. But, sometimes, we don't. It's a bit of a finger wag from James, and it comes with a look—"You know better."

That look and tone from James is a flashback of my mother. Among all the roles she played for her children growing up, one was "the law." She was not to be messed with. My bad behavior was met with, "Don't you ever do that again," which came with a glare. That was then often followed with, "You know better." There's some bit of affirmation in that "You know better." "You have a good mind, a good heart. I see who you can become. Be more of who you were meant to be." We do the same thing today with our grandkids. "Look, we know you're smart. You know what you're doing. You know better." It's not so much a scolding as a reminder of something they already know.

In this text, James is calling our attention to sins of omission, the things we don't do that we know we ought to do. James is reminding us that "We know better." That phrase is the theme of the day.

It seems to me that we pay plenty of attention to sins of commission, the things we do that violate God's commands. You know, like stealing and lying and cheating. Things like gossip where we maybe have too much comfort or familiarity in starting sentences with the words, "I heard." And so on. You get it. We know the list. Sins of commission.

James is calling our attention here to sins of omission. These are failures not because we made an oversight; not forgetfulness; not a momentary lapse; "Oops, my bad." Sins of omission are those times where we knowingly, consciously, purposefully, opt to not do what we know we should do.

God gifted each of us with a conscience, so it's not like all of us don't have an idea. Perhaps there's a prompting from the Holy Spirit, that still small voice that tells us we ought to act, we should do something. But instead, James is telling us that too often we fail to do what we should. Maybe we look the other way. We pretend we didn't see something or we didn't hear something. We decide to mind our own business when a moment calls for stepping forward at a moment of injustice or hurt. An instance where we tell a half-truth, or withhold some of the truth, rather than sharing the full truth.

I know something about the withholding of truth. My first visit to Janice's house in Sandpoint, Idaho. We had been dating a month. First time meeting the parents. Winter 1982, wind chill of 0 degrees, a suburban kid who only knew about indoor pets at a rural home where cats are barn cats who stay outside, even if they are kittens and they are freezing. I'm alone in the kitchen, kitten scratches at door, I let it in and return to the family room. About 20 minutes later, Janice's mom leaves the family room and within seconds she yells, "How did this cat get in the house!?!?" The kitten was on the kitchen table licking a cube of butter. In situations like that, you really only have seconds to come clean and fess up. And if you miss that moment out of fear of what that honesty would do, well, it then makes it even harder to fess up. I froze. And so, while Janice's dad spent the next 40 minutes trying to find the crawl space where the kitten might have gotten into the house, I sat there knowing my sin of omission was getting worse. Immediate and full honesty, in all situations and relationships, travels well. It may be hard, but it travels. I came clean . . . last summer . . . after we had three children and four grandchildren, and I was convinced Janice's dad believed my presence was better than making his daughter a widow. I wish that weren't true, but 20-year-old me clearly hadn't yet internalized James 4:17.

These sins of omission are much harder to see because they aren't out in the open. They are hidden sins that we're the only ones who know about. These are the types of sins that require us to take a deep look at ourselves and assess where we've failed to do what we know what we ought to do. Because, we know better.

And, also, our sins of omission demonstrate our need for God. Only in acknowledging those failings, our sin, can God's work and Word have its way in us.

We can try to convince ourselves that we REALLY don't know better. Some of you students would have been exposed to Immanuel Kant's Categorical Imperative ("Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.). When making decisions, Kant would say that whatever you choose to do, you should want everybody else in the exact same situation to do the same. Even in subscribing to this maxim, we might justify our sins of commission and omission. Keith Wyma shares about comedian Emo Phillips: "I was walking down the street and I saw a wallet on the sidewalk. I picked it up, opened it, and found $150. And so I thought to myself, 'If I had lost my wallet with $150 in it, and someone else found it, what would I want them to do?' I would want them to teach me a lesson." C'mon, we all know better.

You can come up with a list of "should haves" as well as I can:

Should have spent time with God, in prayer
Been attentive to a friend or loved one who needed time and an ear
Expressed gratitude
Return a found item

When we know better, there's a scriptural and moral obligation to be doers of the word. To be people who honor God, follow Christ, and serve humanity, people who act on those verbs.

Another way of thinking about our sins of omission is in the deadly sin "sloth." A number of years ago I heard this from Professor Josh Leim and it stuck with me. We tend to think of sloth as laziness or idleness. Sloth can also be considered as a failure to move towards something—not stepping towards that thing we should do. Instead, we knowingly, quietly, purposefully, choose indifference.

What is it that prevents us from reducing those sins of omission and from stepping forward? I wonder if it's fear or pride or selfishness. Do we fear rejection? Is it because we fear a loss of social standing? Is it because we are simply selfish with our time and resources? Might our sins of omission be because we enjoy the power and position we hold and we just can't be bothered?

Thankfully, God helps us to see more clearly our sins of omission. And that is a grace to us.

And so, knowing that, how might we, as individuals and as a community, become people who less often commit sins of omission to become people who more often act on what we already know to be the good and right things to do:

How might we:

Move towards and insert self into an incident of injustice, whatever "ism" that might be.
Put down the phone and get off the computer and be attentive.
Participate in some sort of service, ministries that move into spaces of hardship and need.
See an elderly person in need, in a store, at a crosswalk, and help them.
Be like that former Whitworth student who came alongside a blind student in his high school, having lunch with the student every day for four years to ensure that student was cared for.
When in conflict with someone, volunteer one's own role in the tension.
Carve out time for prayer or to be in conversation with God.
Knock on a door, send a note of encouragement, check in on a friend.

Back to the beginning. We know better. By your grace and urging, Lord, help us to act as we have opportunity. Help us to be doers of the word. Amen.

Benediction:
In all this scolding by James, and because this is my last time with seniors in the room, I want to close with this word of how you are beloved by God.

Somewhere in my undergraduate studies, Dr. Roger Mohrlang shared Isaiah 49:15-16, and I cannot shake it. And I'm really glad I can't. I hope you all own this text, too.

"And the Lord said to Zion, 'Can a nursing mother forget her child, and have no compassion on the one she has borne? Even these may forget, but I will never forget you, for your names are inscribed in the palms of my hands."

The high priest wore an Ephad in the Holy of Holies when standing at the altar. The ephad was a breastplate, stole with precious stones and names on which were inscribed the names of the 12 tribes of Israel. "See these names etched over my heart. I am here representing them."

Can a nursing mother forget her child? Hard to imagine. Know that the Lord says that your names are engraved in the palms of his hands. They are etched. They are permanent. God sees your name. He sees in you a beloved child. Know, truly know, that that is how you are seen by the eyes that really matter.

Now, leave this place and be doers of the word, by God's grace, hearing His voice to act and to serve, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.